I was far from having given up thinking about Marguerite. Another feeling had taken possession of me. It seemed to me that I had her insult and my absurdity to wipe out; I said to myself that if I spent every penny I had, I would win her and win my right to the place I had abandoned so quickly. Before the performance was over Marguerite and her friend left the box. I rose from my seat. “Are you going?” said Ernest. “Yes.” “Why?” At that moment he saw that the box was empty. “Go, go,” he said, “and good luck, or rather better luck.” I went out. I heard the rustle of dresses, the sound of voices, on the staircase. I stood aside, and, without being seen, saw the two women pass me, accompanied by two young men. At the entrance to the theatre they were met by a footman. “Tell the coachman to wait at the door of the Café Anglais,” said Marguerite. “We will walk there.” A few minutes afterward I saw Marguerite from the street at a window of one of the large rooms of the restaurant, pulling the camellias of her bouquet to pieces, one by one. One of the two men was leaning over her shoulder and whispering in her ear. I took up my position at the Maison-d’or, in one of the first-floor rooms, and did not lose sight of the window for an instant. At one in the morning Marguerite got into her carriage with her three friends. I took a cab and followed them. The carriage stopped at No. 9, Rue d’Antin. Marguerite got out and went in alone. It was no doubt a mere chance, but the chance filled me with delight. From that time forward, I often met Marguerite at the theatre or in the Champs-Elysées. Always there was the same gaiety in her, the same emotion in me. At last a fortnight passed without my meeting her. I met Gaston and asked after her. “Poor girl, she is very ill,” he answered. “What is the matter?” “She is consumptive, and the sort of life she leads isn’t exactly the thing to cure her. She has taken to her bed; she is dying.” The heart is a strange thing; I was almost glad at hearing it. Every day I went to ask after her, without leaving my name or my card. I heard she was convalescent and had gone to Bagnères. Time went by, the impression, if not the memory, faded gradually from my mind. I travelled; love affairs, habits, work, took the place of other thoughts, and when I recalled this adventure I looked upon it as one of those passions which one has when one is very young, and laughs at soon afterward.