Gone. Marguerite sat dreaming of her past life and her present position: who, she asked herself, would have thought that she, the gayest of the gay, should ever love such a tranquillity as she now enjoyed--passing days as happy as hers could be wholly with one whom, but three months ago, she did not even know. She would sit for hours hearing him read, and wonder when those hours had fled. At times she doubted whether she was the same woman--pictured her other self, still living the old weary life. And--and then she perhaps hoped that, away there in the hot bustling city, they had forgotten her. She often pictured herself gorgeously attired, the brilliant center of a ball-room crowd, and then shuddering at the sight, she turned from it, and saw herself seated near this new lover in their boat upon the lake and quietly gliding on the peaceful moonlit waters. She asked herself, Who would take this to be Marguerite? She sat thinking, thinking for a long time, and at last she had a glimpse of such a bright future that she feared she might never live to reach it. She would sell all she possessed, all that could remind her of the past, and then they would live quietly in a couple of little rooms, and live as honest as they might. This was the first break of light in her gloomy life. Nevertheless, a great storm was gathering about her. We set up our little plans, we poor mortals, and the wind passes by and blows them down as easily as a breath overthrows the houses of cards, that children build on winters’ evenings. The lawyer had, with great prudence, warned the young man’s father of the proposed sale. Coming up to Paris, the old man learnt the whole dismal truth. Portions of it had filtered home, indeed, and had done harm there; terrible harm; but no idea had the father that his son actually proposed to ruin himself for this lost woman. Duval, the father, immediately took steps to discover his son’s residence; and upon the very day that Armand left his quiet country house for Paris, the father turned his face towards it. Marguerite was still dreaming--now hopefully--when a servant came and said that a gentleman wished to speak with her. Given permission to enter, an old gentleman came in with a quick, haughty step, and suddenly announced himself as the youth’s father. Trembling, she answered that his son was not in the house. “I know that, but ’tis with _you_ I would speak. I presume that you know my son is degraded, and is ruining himself by remaining with you.” “Pardon; I know that no one speaks of me, and that I have not ruined your son. I have received not one piece of money from him.” “By which you mean to say that my son is fallen so low as to dissipate with you what you have received from others.” “Pardon me again; I am a woman, and in my own house; two reasons which demand your courtesy, and--and you will allow me to--to leave you.”