I knew that her love for me, as well as her own inherent purity, was sufficient assurance that my honour could not have been compromised: therefore I felt that she must have exaggerated the importance of Pierre Ducal’s conduct. To me the circumstances indicated only an unforeseen destruction of carefully laid plans for increasing our prestige in society; if for a moment I had had cause to doubt Raymonde, then perhaps the worldly outcome might have meant less to me, but I realised only the fact that she had peremptorily sent Pierre Ducal away and that he would unquestionably seek revenge. He would make us the victims of his sarcasms and pointed remarks, which could destroy my reputation as an arrow wounds the flesh. He would use to advantage the observations he had made during our close intimacy. I was incensed by the thought of Raymonde’s having so needlessly exposed us to this danger through laying too much stress on a trivial incident. Had she not learned in our society that all women allow men to be attentive to them? Of what use were receptions, beautiful gowns, enticing conversation and the arts of coquetry, if not to call forth the very thing she had resented! Could she not have let Pierre Ducal know in a quiet, forceful manner that his advances annoyed her, without going to the extreme limit of causing a break in our friendship? Surely a woman’s greatest asset is the use of all her weapons of charm and fascination to the best possible advantage. What to Raymonde constituted an irreparable injury was to me only a source of great annoyance. And I took the thing very lightly. “Little one, little one, when will you learn to be reasonable?” She did not answer when I spoke to her. While I had been rapidly reviewing the situation, she had lain on the sofa, her face buried in her hands, completely crushed by the weight of her despair. I repeated my question and she looked up. Now at last I know the meaning of her every gesture and glance. I realised that she hid her face because she felt degraded for having even unknowingly appealed to the sensual nature of Pierre Ducal. The very fact of those words, which she had not invited, seemed to her to sully her purity. Even my presence was painful to her on that account. I can still see her large eyes fixed on me, those eyes so limpid, in which I could plainly read her terror. “What did you say?” she murmured. “I did not understand you--I did not understand.” For one brief moment I felt intuitively that I had not been fair to her. I went over to the couch, stooped, and would have taken her in my arms. “Don’t touch me,” she cried. “Do not touch me yet.” That one cry of fright was an expression of the repulsion she felt for herself. Her delicacy had been deeply wounded by the realisation that any other man had dared to think of her as only her husband had the right to do. But to my worldliness her terror had another significance, and it infuriated me. “He did not touch you, did he?” I cried.