I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a kept woman, but I should have felt that I was offending by the least appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she had for me, at all events the love which I had for her, and since this love was so pure that it could admit no division, it could not pay by a present, however generous, the happiness that it had received, however short that happiness had been. That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I was still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but Marguerite. As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish either with the woman or with one’s scruples, if, that is, she would still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is always slow in taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded. It was nine o’clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who asked to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly what brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in order to reserve a place in the diligence for C., where my father lived. “You are fortunate,” she said, “in being able to get away from Paris in this fine weather.” I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but her face was quite serious. “Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?” she continued, as seriously as before. “No.” “You are quite right.” “You think so?” “Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her again?” “You know it is broken off?” “She showed me your letter.” “What did she say about it?” “She said: ‘My dear Prudence, your _protégé_ is not polite; one thinks such letters, one does not write them.”’ “In what tone did she say that?” “Laughingly,” and she added: “He has had supper with me twice, and hasn’t even called.” That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection. “What did she do last night?” “She went to the opera.” “I know. And afterward?” “She had supper at home.” “Alone?” “With the Comte de G., I believe.” So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is for such reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don’t have anything more to do with the woman; she cares nothing about you. “Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put herself out for me,” I said with a forced smile. “She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were bound to do. You have been more reasonable than she, for she was really in love with you; she did nothing but talk of you. I don’t know what she would not have been capable of doing.”