What a conversation this was for a man to hear who, as I, since the previous evening, had been invaded by the most passionate interests, and by an emotion so keen that it was real love! During the hours of that afternoon of confidences I could do nothing but ask myself: “Was she sincere? Would it be possible for despair to make her take that horrible course?” I could see in my mind that fat Tournade, and the gleam of the eyes of that horrible being standing out from his red face. I discerned now on reflection a will I had not realized on the previous evening, that of the rich and patient rake who is weary of play and fastens himself upon a particular woman. At the same time I could see Jacques Molan as I had left him that morning, and his look when he had spoken of his scheme for a rupture. But it was impossible that he could suspect the responsibility he was incurring. I tried to demonstrate to myself that there was more affectation than real perversity in his nature as a literary man and that it was inoffensive. It is always childish for a man to make such a parade of himself, even when, as in his case, it was diplomatic and calculated. Was he not better than his attitudes and paradoxes? Who knows? In telling him simply and frankly my impression of the evil he could do this poor girl, should I not touch in him a chord of remorse? There is, however, a sentimental honour, a probity, trivial but strictly accurate, in affairs of the heart, as there is professional honour and probity in money matters. How many people anarchists in theory recognize in practice this pecuniary probity! They preach the suppression of inheritance, and they would not rob you of a farthing in a business transaction. Why had not Jacques too a fund of scruples and probity in the presence of an obviously bad action to be committed or not?