For my sake she left her aunt, her little Jules, and many others! Why should she not leave me as well? She had ceased to love me: that was not a crime. But she had deceived me: that, I believe, was what distressed me most; for it humiliates one to be deceived, especially when one is old enough one's self to deceive. However, such a liaison is bound to end, a little sooner or later. What did it matter? I was no longer in love with her. That, I believe, was why I was so incensed with her. I was vexed because I had allowed her to anticipate me. Love forgives many things that self-esteem refuses to forgive. If Nicette should deceive me! then, I felt that my grief would be a very different matter. I remembered how disturbed, how agitated, I was when I learned that she had taken a shop; and yet, I was only her friend. I tried to think of Nicette; that was the best remedy for Caroline's treatment of me. I walked the whole length of the boulevards. I had had time to reason with myself, and I had fully decided upon my course of action. I realized what an idiot a man must be to torment himself over the treachery of a woman who has thrown others over for him. Indeed, how can one rely on the word of a person who has no other guaranty to offer than previous infidelities. I decided, therefore, to amuse myself at Mademoiselle Caroline's expense. That is the most satisfactory vengeance one can wreak on a woman who deceives one. Every vengeance which savors of hatred, jealousy, or anger denotes a lingering remnant of love; it is not real vengeance. At ten o'clock I was at the Café Anglais. I ordered a glass of punch, pending Raymond's arrival. I did not propose to muddle my wits, but I desired to attain that degree of excitement which makes one less sensible of the folly of other people. My neighbor appeared, in the careful négligé of a lady killer. One would have thought, from his radiant expression, that he was the hero of the evening's festivities. "We shall have great sport," he said, taking a seat by my side, and resting his elbow on the next table, regardless of the fact that he put it in the dish of rice and milk of an old habitué. "What the devil, monsieur! be careful what you're doing!" said the old gentleman, putting down his newspaper. Raymond apologized profusely, and removed his thoroughly drenched elbow from the bowl with such vivacity that he rolled it onto the white trousers of a dandy who was reading the _Journal des Modes_. The dandy made a great outcry, the old habitué scolded Raymond roundly, and I saw that his apologies would soon bring matters to a climax. As I did not propose that any fresh scrape should interfere with our going to Monsieur de Grandmaison's, I made haste to intervene, striving to pacify the two gentlemen and to restore peace. I succeeded at last, and, dreading some new mishap, I dragged Raymond out of the café. "The evening seems to open inauspiciously," I said, as I led him toward Rue Caumartin.