Ernest and his wife returned from the play, and were told that a gentleman was waiting for them in their salon. They came in and exclaimed in surprise when they saw me: “Why, it is Blémont!” “It is Monsieur Henri! How long it is since we have seen you! how do you happen to come so late?” “I wanted to see you; I have a favor to ask of Ernest.” They both looked at me and both came toward me simultaneously. “What’s the matter, pray? What has happened to you?” “How pale he is, and how distressed!” “Nothing is the matter.” “Oh! yes, my friend, something is wrong; is your wife sick? or your children?” “I no longer have a wife, I have no children with me; I am alone now.” “What do you say?” cried Marguerite; “your wife?” “She has deceived me, betrayed me; she is no longer with me.” They did not say a word; they seemed thunderstruck. I rose and continued in a firmer voice: “Yes, she has deceived me, that same Eugénie, whom I loved so dearly; you know how dearly, you who were the confidants of my love. It was only this morning that I obtained proofs of her perfidy. I am not used to suffering as yet; I shall get used to it perhaps; but I swear, I will do my utmost to forget a woman who is not worthy of me. I have been unfortunate in love; I shall at least find some relief in friendship.” Ernest and Marguerite threw themselves into my arms; Marguerite wept and Ernest pressed my hand affectionately. At last I released myself from their embrace. “It is late, my friends; forgive me for coming thus to disturb your happiness. Good-night, my little neighbor.--Ernest, a word with you, please.” He followed me to a window. “I am to fight to-morrow; you can guess with whom and for what reason. I need not tell you that there is no possible adjustment, although we are supposed to be fighting because of a dispute at cards. Will you be my second?” “Yes, of course.” “I shall expect you to-morrow morning, promptly at seven o’clock.” “I will be on time.” Marguerite had gone into another room. She returned at that moment and said: “Don’t you wish to kiss our children before you go?” At that suggestion, tears came to my eyes; for I reflected that I could not kiss my daughter before going to bed that night. Marguerite evidently divined my thought. “Oh! pray forgive me,” she said; “I have pained you. Oh dear! I didn’t mean to.” I pressed her hand, nodded to Ernest, and hurried from the room. Once more I was compelled to return to that apartment. It was torture to me. How empty it seemed! and in fact it was empty; no wife, no child about me. It was not Eugénie whom my eyes sought; she had avoided and shunned my presence for a long while. It was my daughter, my little Henriette--she did not avoid me! What a miserable night I passed! not a moment’s sleep. I wondered if she who made me so unhappy was sleeping quietly.