I only cite this puerile fact for the reason that this capricious and strange desire for solitude, amid the happy life I was then leading, was so unusual at my age that it now seems to me to have been an inherited taste. While on this theme, I remember that my mother told me how, before his retirement to Serval, when, on account of his position, my father was obliged to see a great deal of society in Paris, that on reception days his moroseness and habitual misanthropy would take possession of him to an extraordinary degree; and yet, when he would once force himself to make the plunge, if I may say so, no one could receive, with more grace, more entire politeness, more delicate and perfect tact. It was, my mother said, as though all these three or four hours of hypocrisy, that he knew he would have to go through with, worked him up to a frightful state of exasperation beforehand; and yet, when remarking on his gracious and noble face, his charmingly affable and dignified manners, strangers would suppose that he could never be contented to live except in the world of society, where he appeared to such rare and excellent advantage. But I must return to that sad November day, when, for the first time, I experienced that extraordinary desire for isolation. We at last reached the château. As I was going up to my room to dress, one of my aunt's maids told me that my aunt begged me to come to her room for a few moments. I had no reason to dread such an interview, and yet I felt a great weight at my heart. I hastened to my aunt's room; she was seated beside her work-table, on which I noticed an open letter; I noticed also that she had been weeping. "My friend," she said, "there are very wicked and very infamous people in this world. Read this." Then she handed me the letter, and replaced her handkerchief over her eyes. I read. It was an anonymous and "friendly" warning to Hélène's mother, charitably informing her that my familiar intimacy with her daughter had brought irreparable ruin to her reputation. In a word, she was given to understand, by means of the confused phraseology usual in such cases, that Hélène was "looked upon as my mistress," and that, by her unpardonable weakness and carelessness, my aunt had countenanced the odious rumour. It was false, absolutely false; it was a horrible calumny; but I was stunned, for I saw in an instant that appearances would give a terrible credit to the accusation. I felt as if I were wakened from a dream. I have told how I allowed myself to be swept on by the current of this sweet and chaste affection with neither forethought nor reflection, with all the delightful inconsistency of happiness. This letter put the reality before my eyes and I was crushed. My first movement was noble and generous. I tore up the letter, saying to my aunt, "Believe me, the reputation of my cousin Hélène shall be vindicated in the most satisfactory manner."