In his first three letters my father inquired the cause of my silence; in the last he allowed me to see that he had heard of my change of life, and informed me that he was about to come and see me. I have always had a great respect and a sincere affection for my father. I replied that I had been travelling for a short time, and begged him to let me know beforehand what day he would arrive, so that I could be there to meet him. I gave my servant my address in the country, telling him to bring me the first letter that came with the postmark of C., then I returned to Bougival. Marguerite was waiting for me at the garden gate. She looked at me anxiously. Throwing her arms round my neck, she said to me: “Have you seen Prudence?” “No.” “You were a long time in Paris.” “I found letters from my father to which I had to reply.” A few minutes afterward Nanine entered, all out of breath. Marguerite rose and talked with her in whispers. When Nanine had gone out Marguerite sat down by me again and said, taking my hand: “Why did you deceive me? You went to see Prudence.” “Who told you?” “Nanine.” “And how did she know?” “She followed you.” “You told her to follow me?” “Yes. I thought that you must have had a very strong motive for going to Paris, after not leaving me for four months. I was afraid that something might happen to you, or that you were perhaps going to see another woman.” “Child!” “Now I am relieved. I know what you have done, but I don’t yet know what you have been told.” I showed Marguerite my father’s letters. “That is not what I am asking you about. What I want to know is why you went to see Prudence.” “To see her.” “That’s a lie, my friend.” “Well, I went to ask her if the horse was any better, and if she wanted your shawl and your jewels any longer.” Marguerite blushed, but did not answer. “And,” I continued, “I learned what you had done with your horses, shawls, and jewels.” “And you are vexed?” “I am vexed that it never occurred to you to ask me for what you were in want of.” “In a liaison like ours, if the woman has any sense of dignity at all, she ought to make every possible sacrifice rather than ask her lover for money and so give a venal character to her love. You love me, I am sure, but you do not know on how slight a thread depends the love one has for a woman like me. Who knows? Perhaps some day when you were bored or worried you would fancy you saw a carefully concerted plan in our liaison. Prudence is a chatterbox. What need had I of the horses? It was an economy to sell them. I don’t use them and I don’t spend anything on their keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you will love me just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds.” All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as I listened.