“No, no!” she said, almost with affright; “we should be too unhappy. I can do no more to make you happy, but while there is a breath of life in me, I will be the slave of your fancies. At whatever hour of the day or night you will, come, and I will be yours; but do not link your future any more with mine, you would be too unhappy and you would make me too unhappy. I shall still be pretty for a while; make the most of it, but ask nothing more.” When she had gone, I was frightened at the solitude in which she left me. Two hours afterward I was still sitting on the side of the bed, looking at the pillow which kept the imprint of her form, and asking myself what was to become of me, between my love and my jealousy. At five o’clock, without knowing what I was going to do, I went to the Rue d’Antin. Nanine opened to me. “Madame can not receive you,” she said in an embarrassed way. “Why?” “Because M. le Comte de N. is there, and he has given orders to let no one in.” “Quite so,” I stammered; “I forgot.” I went home like a drunken man, and do you know what I did during the moment of jealous delirium which was long enough for the shameful thing I was going to do? I said to myself that the woman was laughing at me; I saw her alone with the count, saying over to him the same words that she had said to me in the night, and taking a five-hundred-franc note I sent it to her with these words: “You went away so suddenly that I forgot to pay you. Here is the price of your night.” Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself from the instantaneous remorse of this infamous action. I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we were alone she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very type of the shameless, heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at least, for perhaps some men might have dreamed of her as I dreamed of Marguerite. She asked me for money. I gave it to her, and, free then to go, I returned home. Marguerite had not answered. I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next day. At half past nine a messenger brought me an envelope containing my letter and the five-hundred-franc note, not a word more. “Who gave you this?” I asked the man. “A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for Boulogne, and who told me not to take it until the coach was out of the courtyard.” I rushed to the Rue d’Antin. “Madame left for England at six o’clock,” said the porter. There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate nor love. I was exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my friends was setting out on a tour in the East. I told my father I should like to accompany him; my father gave me drafts and letters of introduction, and eight or ten days afterward I embarked at Marseilles. It was at Alexandria that I learned from an _attaché_ at the embassy, whom I had sometimes seen at Marguerite’s, that the poor girl was seriously ill.