If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon her, I could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven her, and certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an injury. But I found her apparently happy, someone else had restored to her the luxury which I could not give her; her breaking with me seemed to assume a character of the basest self-interest; I was lowered in my own esteem as well as in my love. I resolved that she should pay for what I had suffered. I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what would hurt her the most would be my indifference; it was, therefore, this sentiment which I must affect, not only in her eyes, but in the eyes of others. I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on Prudence. The maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes in the drawing-room. At last Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me into her boudoir; as I seated myself I heard the drawing-room door open, a light footstep made the floor creak and the front door was closed violently. “I am disturbing you,” I said to Prudence. “Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you announced, she made her escape; it was she who has just gone out.” “Is she afraid of me now?” “No, but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her.” “But why?” I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was choked with emotion. “The poor girl left me for her carriage, her furniture, and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don’t bear her any grudge. I met her to-day,” I continued carelessly. “Where?” asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself if this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love. “In the Champs-Elysées. She was with another woman, very pretty. Who is she?” “What was she like?” “Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant.” “Ah! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty.” “Whom does she live with?” “With nobody; with anybody.” “Where does she live?” “Rue Tronchet, No.—. Do you want to make love to her?” “One never knows.” “And Marguerite?” “I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more about her; but I am one of those with whom everything depends on the way in which one breaks with them. Now Marguerite ended with me so lightly that I realize I was a great fool to have been as much in love with her as I was, for I was really very much in love with that girl.” You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out on my forehead. “She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof is, that after meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me about it. When she got here she was all of a tremble; I thought she was going to faint.” “Well, what did she say?” “She said, ‘He is sure to come here,’ and she begged me to ask you to forgive her.”