“How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son obey him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do me the honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give me up.” “You know that I love you.” “Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will have to obey your father, and perhaps you will end by believing him.” “No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of his friends have been telling him tales which have made him angry; but he is good and just, he will change his first impression; and then, after all, what does it matter to me?” “Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen than that you should quarrel with your family; wait till after to-day, and to-morrow go back to Paris. Your father, too, will have thought it over on his side, and perhaps you will both come to a better understanding. Do not go against his principles, pretend to make some concessions to what he wants; seem not to care so very much about me, and he will let things remain as they are. Hope, my friend, and be sure of one thing, that whatever happens, Marguerite will always be yours.” “You swear it?” “Do I need to swear it?” How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one loves! Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our projects for the future, as if we felt the need of realizing them as quickly as possible. At every moment we awaited some event, but the day passed without bringing us any new tidings. Next day I left at ten o’clock, and reached the hotel about twelve. My father had gone out. I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No one had called. I went to the solicitor’s. No one was there. I went back to the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not return, and I went back to Bougival. I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day before, but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made necessary. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close to her chair without her hearing me. When I put my lips to her forehead she started as if the kiss had suddenly awakened her. “You frightened me,” she said. “And your father?” “I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at his hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding him.” “Well, you must try again to-morrow.” “I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I have done all that can be expected of me.” “No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father again, and you must call to-morrow.” “Why to-morrow rather than any other day?” “Because,” said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed slightly at this question, “because it will show that you are the more keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner.”