This reply impressed Laurent by its conclusive tranquillity, and what he had just said by way of jest suddenly assumed the guise of a buried dream, as if the operation had taken place in his mind. That powerful and ill-fated mind was so constituted that the word _impossible_ was all that was necessary to make him desire a thing, and that was just the word Thérèse had uttered. Instantly his inclination to fall in love with her reawoke, and with it his suspicions, his jealousy, and his anger. Hitherto the spell of friendship had lulled and, as it were, intoxicated him; of a sudden he became bitter, and cold as ice. "Ah! yes, of course," he said, taking his hat to go, "that is the key-word of my life, which constantly turns up on every occasion, at the end of a jest, as well as at the end of every serious subject: _impossible_! You do not know that foe, Thérèse; your love is tranquil and undisturbed. You have a _lover_, or a _friend_, who is not jealous, because he knows you to be cold or reasonable! That reminds me that it is getting late, and that your _thirty-seven cousins_ are probably here, waiting for me to go." "What is that you are saying?" demanded Thérèse in utter amazement; "what ideas have come into your head? Are you subject to attacks of insanity?" "Sometimes," he added, taking his leave. "You must excuse them." II The next day, Thérèse received the following letter from Laurent: "MY DEAR GOOD FRIEND: "How did I leave you last night? If I said some horrible thing to you, forget it, I had no consciousness of it. I had an attack of vertigo which did not leave me at your door; for I found myself at my own door, in a cab, with no idea how I got there. "It often happens with me, my dear friend, that my mouth says one thing when my brain is saying another. Pity me and forgive me. I am ill, and you were right in saying that the life I lead is detestable.