Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said absolutely nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her suspicions, for, finding that I did not keep my appointment, she would have inquired the reason of my absence, and only then I should have given it to her. Thus, she would have had to exculpate herself, and what I wanted was for her to exculpate herself. I already realized that I should have believed whatever reasons she had given me, and anything was better than not to see her again. At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; but hour followed hour, and she did not come. Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few who would have received such a letter as I had just written without answering it at all. At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysées. “If I meet her,” I thought, “I will put on an indifferent air, and she will be convinced that I no longer think about her.” As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her carriage. The meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not know if she saw my emotion; as for me, I was so agitated that I saw nothing but the carriage. I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysées. I looked at the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a chance of seeing her. There was a first night at the Palais Royal. Marguerite was sure to be there. I was at the theatre by seven. The boxes filled one after another, but Marguerite was not there. I left the Palais Royal and went to all the theatres where she was most often to be seen: to the Vaudeville, the Variétés, the Opera Comique. She was nowhere. Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go to the theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to avoid an explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the boulevards, when I met Gaston, who asked me where I had been. “At the Palais Royal.” “And I at the Opera,” said he; “I expected to see you there.” “Why?” “Because Marguerite was there.” “Ah, she was there?” “Yes. “Alone?” “No; with another woman.” “That all?” “The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off with the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was a stall at my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I was sure you had taken it.” “But why should I go where Marguerite goes?” “Because you are her lover, surely!” “Who told you that?” “Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, my dear fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn’t everybody who has the chance. Stick to her; she will do you credit.” These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish letter which I had written.