The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let for three or four days when one morning there was a ring at my door. My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went to the door and brought me a card, saying that the person who had given it to him wished to see me. I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand Duval. I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the first leaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person who had given the book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to ask him in at once. I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling suit which looked as if he had not changed it for some days, and had not even taken the trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris, for it was covered with dust. M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his agitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling voice that he said to me: “Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young people are not very ceremonious with one another, and I was so anxious to see you to-day that I have not even gone to the hotel to which I have sent my luggage, and have rushed straight here, fearing that, after all, I might miss you, early as it is.” I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a moment. “You must be at a loss to understand,” he went on, sighing sadly, “for what purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a costume, and in tears, can have come to see you. I have simply come to ask of you a great service.” “Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal.” “You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?” At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an instant, was too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his eyes with his hand. “I must seem to you very absurd,” he added, “but pardon me, and believe that I shall never forget the patience with which you have listened to me.” “Sir,” I answered, “if the service which I can render you is able to lessen your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do for you, and you will find me only too happy to oblige you.” M. Duval’s sorrow was sympathetic, and in spite of myself I felt the desire of doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me: “You bought something at Marguerite’s sale?” “Yes, a book.” “Manon Lescaut?” “Precisely.” “Have you the book still?” “It is in my bedroom.” On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great weight, and thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service merely by keeping the book. I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed to him.