"My friend," continued Dubourg, taking his hand, "I have told you just what I think; you ought not to be angry. Moreover, all that one can say to a lover never makes any difference; he always follows his own impulses solely. I know, too, that you cannot marry Sister Anne. Parbleu! if a man had to marry all the charmers he has loved, I should have as many wives as King Solomon. I tell you simply that it gave me great pain to---- But, enough of that! I am none the less your friend, do with me as you will. Adieu! I am going to dine at a thirty-two-sou ordinary, because when a man has an income of sixteen hundred francs a year and wants to keep it, he doesn't go to Beauvilliers." Long after Dubourg had gone, Frédéric remained where he had left him, absorbed in his reflections. Argue as he would, Dubourg had opened his eyes to the state of his heart, and, although he still tried to delude himself, he knew that he was no longer the dumb girl's devoted, ardent, faithful lover, who was ready to sacrifice everything in order to pass his days with her. It is hard for a man to admit his faults to himself, and even when he does he always finds some excuse to palliate his conduct, and says to himself that he could not have done otherwise. Especially in love do we reason thus, and the last passion, being always the strongest, speedily vanquishes its predecessor. Frédéric, cudgelling his brains for some means of repairing the wrong he had done, said to himself: "I will see Sister Anne again, I will not leave her to pass her life in a wretched hovel, cut off from all intercourse with society; I will buy her a pretty cottage, with a lovely garden, and some cows and sheep; I will surround her with everything that will make her life pleasant and happy; I will find some village girl, of her own age, to wait upon her, whose presence will enliven her; she will live there with old Marguerite, and she shall have everything that she needs; the sight of her neighbors, of the passers-by, and of the people at work in the fields, with her own household cares, will drive away her melancholy; I will go to see her sometimes, and she will be happy." Happy, without Frédéric! No; to Sister Anne, that was impossible. Comfort, even wealth, would not compensate her for the loss of her love; for Sister Anne was not brought up in Paris; she could not conceive that anyone could prefer diamonds and fine clothes to joys of the heart, or that a wrong could be atoned for with gold. Nor, five months earlier, could Frédéric have conceived it; but as he could readily do so now, it was natural that he should believe that Sister Anne could do the same: we judge others' hearts by our own.