What shall I say? That, as I walked along to the pavilion, my ideas were a frightful mixture of selfishness, wounded pride, and cruel resolutions, also of bitter regret to have dispelled so fair an illusion, to have lost all hope of consoling myself some day by the remembrance of a pure and disinterested first love. What is horrible and ridiculous to admit is, that never for a moment did the thought that I might be mistaken ever enter my mind; that, having admitted the possibility of evil, I should also be willing to admit the chances of good; that, after all, taking no account of Hélène's character and the nobility of her mind, there were a thousand circumstances, a thousand reasons, which would prove beyond a doubt that her love was pure and without a selfish thought; and, then, my fortune being part of my condition, was not Hélène obliged to take me as she found me, and, finding me rich, love me, rich though I was? But, no, my one idea was so fixed in my mind, and possessed me with such brutal ferocity, that I never attempted to find a single excuse in favour of the woman I so cruelly suspected. Long years have passed since then, and now that I review my past conduct, I have the consolation of knowing that it was not to avoid the fulfilment of my duty that I forced myself into this blind faith in evil; for I knew that the stories in circulation had an appearance of truth to the eyes of the world, though they were utterly false in every respect. I knew that I owed it to Hélène to make the reparation my first impulse had shown me was the right one. She was my relative, she had been like a daughter to my father. I knew her excellent qualities, and I had been convinced that I would become the happiest man in the world, should I become her husband. But my conduct towards her was not dictated by one of those sordid instincts which we are ashamed to admit but whose tool we allow ourselves to become. Later in life I should not have been able to deliberately deceive myself, but then I was so young, so confident in my incredulity, and I remember perfectly that what caused me the most smarting mortification was not the fact that I had been duped, but the unspeakable regret that I had not been able to inspire Hélène with a real affection. At last I arrived at the pavilion. When I entered I found Hélène waiting for me seated near the door; she was wrapped in a black cloak, and trembling with cold. When she saw me she rose, and, holding out her hands to me, said, in a tone of the deepest sadness: "Ah, you have come at last! How much we have suffered these last two days!" Then, no doubt struck by the stern and unkind expression of my features, she added, "Good God! What is the matter, Arthur? You frighten me."