After her departure my heart-broken pity for her changed into increasing uneasiness. Was I to keep my word to the poor girl and not warn Molan? I knew too well the value of lovers’ oaths to believe that, after assisting in concealment at this rendezvous between her lover and her rival, she would keep to her resolution of a silent rupture without vengeance. It is in vain for a woman to try and bear in her heart that sentimental pride, of which she had given proof in a very unlikely fashion by remaining in her hiding-place; she is still a woman, and sooner or later the pressure of her instinct will overcome her reason and dignity. If a fresh attack of grief overwhelmed the outraged mistress, would she not, when a prey to the delirium of jealousy, write the truth to her rival’s husband? The look came to my mind which Bonnivet had given at his table the woman who bore his name and who was now the mistress of Jacques. How was it that this coquette, so obviously gaunt, so profoundly ironical, and so little impulsive, had given herself thus? Curiosity to learn the details of this culpable adventure did not enter into the temptation which seized me directly Camille had gone to go and see my friend. At least I could warn him against danger and a surprise likely to be tragic. I, however, resisted this desire, which was almost a need, of warning him through a point of honour which I have never yet failed to keep. That is the result of being the son of a Puritan. My father’s words always came into my mind at times like this: “A promise is not to be interpreted but to be kept.” I have this principle in my blood and marrow. I cannot recall circumstances when to keep a promise has cost me such an effort. To remain faithful to my oath, I forbade myself going to see Jacques. He came to see me on the day following the day I had received his mistress’ confidences which were so hard for me to keep. He had the previous evening been to the theatre to see Camille. He had not been able to talk to her because of her mother’s presence. This presence, which was obviously at the daughter’s desire, had astonished him a little; then he thought he noticed in the latter’s eyes and also in her acting something strange, a sort of unhealthy excitement. As often happens when a person has not a clear conscience, this something had sufficed to make him uneasy. He therefore, had come to the studio with the vague hope of meeting Camille and the certain object of making me talk. His epigrams upon my part as eternal confidant were well justified. It is true that a very simple pretext offered an explanation of his visit. “I have had an invitation sent you for Madam de Bonnivet’s evening party,” he stated after our greetings; “you will go, won’t you? Shall we dine together that evening? Has Camille told you that she is acting there?” “Yes,” I replied, “and I thought the idea was in somewhat doubtful taste.”