And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at mechanically. I recognised Marguerite’s writing. I took the letter. It was addressed, “To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M. Duval.” “This letter is for me,” I said to the porter, as I showed him the address. “You are M. Duval?” he replied. “Yes. “Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy.” When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a thunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less startled than I was by what I read. “By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the mistress of another man. All is over between us. “Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and there, by the side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our miseries, you will soon forget what you would have suffered through that lost creature who is called Marguerite Gautier, whom you have loved for an instant, and who owes to you the only happy moments of a life which, she hopes, will not be very long now.” When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myself a little. I looked about me, and was astonished to see the life of others continue without pausing at my distress. I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered that my father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes, and that, whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it. I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the key in the door of my father’s room; I entered. He was reading. He showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was expecting me. I flung myself into his arms without saying a word. I gave him Marguerite’s letter, and, falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept hot tears. Chapter XXIII When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not believe that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those which had preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that some circumstance, which I could not recollect, had obliged me to spend the night away from Marguerite, but that, if I returned to Bougival, I should find her again as anxious as I had been, and that she would ask me what had detained me away from her so long. When one’s existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this love, it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without at the same time breaking all the other springs of life. I was forced from time to time to reread Marguerite’s letter, in order to convince myself that I had not been dreaming.