"Listen to me, my Juliette," I said to her, "listen to me!... I am lost ... ruined ... ruined ... do you hear, ruined!... We have only four thousand francs left!..." "Poor boy!" Juliette sighed while placing her head on my shoulder, "poor boy!..." I burst out sobbing, and cried out: "You understand now that I must leave you.... And I am going to die if I do!" "Come now, you are silly to talk that way.... Do you believe I could live without you, my dear?... Come now, don't cry, don't grieve so much...." She dried the tears from my eyes and continued in her voice which grew sweeter with every word. "First of all we have four thousand francs.... We can live four months on that.... During these four months you'll work.... Let us see if you can't write a good novel in four months!... But don't cry, because if you cry, I won't tell you a great secret ... a great, great secret.... Do you know what your little wifie did, who little suspected that herself--do you know?... Well, for three days she went to the riding school, she took lessons in horsemanship--and next year when she is well trained, Franconi will engage her.... Do you know what a woman rider in a fashionable riding school makes.... Two thousand, three thousand francs a month!... You see now, there isn't much to grieve over, my poor little boy!" All nonsense, all folly seemed logical to me. I clung to it desperately as a shipwrecked sailor clings to the insecure wreckage tossed by the waves. Provided it kept me afloat for an instant, I did not care toward what dangerous reefs, toward what blacker depths it swept me on. I also cleaved to that absurd hope of one doomed to perish, which even on the slaughter stake, which even under the knife, still expects the impossible to happen: a sudden change, an earthly catastrophe which will deliver him from death. I permitted myself to be deluded by the pretty purring of Juliette's words! A firm resolve to work heroically filled my spirit and threw me into raptures.... I had visions of multitudes of people bending breathlessly over my books, of theatres where grave and painted men were coming forward and uttering my name to the boundless enthusiasm of the audience. Overcome with fatigue, worn out with emotion, I fell asleep. We finished dinner. Juliette was even more affectionate than at the time when I came back. Nevertheless, I noticed a sort of uneasiness, a preoccupied air in her. She was sad and gay at one and the same time: What was going on behind this forehead over which clouds were passing? Did she decide to leave me, in spite of all her protestations, and did she want to make our separation easier by lavishing on me all the treasures of her caresses? "How annoying, my dear!" she said, "I have to go out." "What do you mean, you have to go out? Now?" "Why yes, just think of it. That poor Gabrielle is very ill. She is alone--I have promised to come to see her! Oh! but I won't stay very long.... About an hour...."