“A secret without a confidant is a mortal illness,” he had said, and he had listened to all my vagaries, without appearing to perceive my madness; sometimes he had seemed to share it, sometimes he had skillfully suggested doubts that had won me over to his way of thinking. I had come to think, a greater part of the time, that were it not for the inexplicable fact of the ring, my imagination alone was responsible for all my fantastic adventures. I found in M. d’Aillane all the superiority of heart and mind that his children had spoken of. He evinced a sympathy for me, to which I responded with all my soul. We separated as late as possible. As for myself, when twelve o’clock struck and Madame d’Ionis gave the signal for a general good evening, I experienced a sensation of grief as if I had fallen from delicious dreams into sombre reality. I had for so long a time reversed the order of life, regarding it as a dream, and dreams as waking, that the dread of being again alone was actually a terrible shock, and thoroughly unnerved me. I certainly did not as yet wish to admit that I could love another; but it was certain that without thinking myself in love with Mademoiselle d’Aillane, I had an extraordinarily friendly feeling for her. I had observed her very carefully when she was not addressing me, and the more familiar I grew with her beauty, which was of an uncommon order, the more I was assured that I again experienced the same sensations awakened by the adorable phantom; only this was a gentler fascination and imparted a wonderful sense of spiritual bliss. That clear countenance inspired absolute confidence and a sentiment of tranquil ardor resembling faith. Bernard, who had no more idea of going to sleep than myself, talked with me until two o’clock in the morning. We had lodged in the same room, no longer “_la chambre aux dames_” nor even the one where I had been ill, but a pretty apartment decorated in the style of Boucher, with the rosiest and gayest of designs. There had been no more question of the green ladies than if we had never heard them mentioned. While Bernard was talking to me about his dear Caroline, he asked me what opinion I had formed of his dear Félicie. At first I did not know how to answer him. I feared to say too much or too little. I evaded the question by asking him, in my turn, why he had spoken to me so little of her. “Is it possible,” I said, “that you like her less than she likes you?” “I would be a strange animal,” he replied, “if I did not adore my sister. But you were so taken up with certain ideas, that you would not even have listened to my praises of her. And then, situated as we were at that time, my sister and myself, it would not have looked very well for me to appear as if I were proposing her to you.” “And how could you have had the appearance of doing me such an honor.”