"But that life inspires me with horror! You think that I would regret it? You think that some day I may again become the woman I have been, the madcap you have known?--you think so! And how can I help your believing it? And yet I know very well that I would never cause you that sorrow, nor any other--never! I have discovered in your eyes a new world I did not know--a more dignified, more lofty world, of which I had never conceived the idea--and outside of which I can no longer live. Ah! you must certainly feel that I am telling you the truth!" "Yes, madam, you are telling me the truth--the truth of the hour--of a moment of fever and excitement; but this new world, which appears dimly to you now--this ideal world in which you desire to seek an eternal refuge against mere transient evils--would never keep all it seems to promise. Disappointment, regret, misery await you within it--and do not await you alone. I know not if there be a man gifted with a sufficiently noble mind, with a sufficiently lofty soul to make you love the new existence of which you are dreaming to preserve in the reality the almost divine character which your imagination imparts to it; but I do know that such a task, sweet as it might be, is beyond my strength; I would be insane, I would be a wretch, if I were to accept it." "Is that your final decision? Cannot reflection alter it in any way?" "In no way." "Farewell then, sir--ah! unhappy woman that I am!--farewell!" She grasped my hand, which she wrung convulsively, and then left me. After she had disappeared, I sat down on the bench, upon which she had been seated. There, my dear Paul, my whole strength gave way. I hid my head in my hands and I wept like a child. Thank God, she did not return! I had at last to gather all my courage in order to appear once more and for a moment in the ball-room. There was nothing to indicate that my absence had been noticed, or unfavorably commented upon. Madame de Palme was dancing and displaying a degree of gayety amounting almost to delirium. Soon after, supper was announced, and I availed myself of the general commotion attending that incident, to retire to my room. Early this morning, I requested a private interview with Madame de Malouet. It appeared to me that my entire confidence was due to her. She heard me with profound sadness, but without manifesting any surprise. "I had guessed," she told me, "something of the kind--I did not sleep all night. I believe that you have done your duty as a wise man and as an honest man. Yes, you have. Still, it seems very hard. Society life is detestable in this, that it creates fictitious characters and passions, unexpected situations, subtle shades, which complicate strangely the practice of duty, and obscure the straight path which ought to be always simple and easy to discover. And now you wish to leave, I suppose?" "Certainly, madam."