“I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?” she went on absentmindedly. “If you like.” “And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?” “Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can.” “You will come back?” she said, looking at me with haggard eyes. “Naturally.” “Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I always do, and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we have been ever since we have known each other.” All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed to hide so persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled every moment lest Marguerite should become delirious. “Listen,” I said. “You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I will write and tell my father not to expect me.” “No, no,” she cried hastily, “don’t do that. Your father will accuse me of hindering you again from going to see him when he wants to see you; no, no, you must go, you must! Besides, I am not ill. I am quite well. I had a bad dream and am not yet fully awake.” From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There were no more tears. When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if she would come with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk would distract her and that the air would do her good. I wanted especially to be with her as long as possible. She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not to return alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going. But the hope of a speedy return, and the fear of offending my father still more, sustained me, and I took my place in the train. “Till this evening!” I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did not reply. Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte de G., you will remember, had spent the night with her; but that time was so far away that it seemed to have been effaced from my memory, and if I had any fear, it was certainly not of Marguerite being unfaithful to me. Reaching Paris, I hastened off to see Prudence, intending to ask her to go and keep Marguerite company, in the hope that her mirth and liveliness would distract her. I entered without being announced, and found Prudence at her toilet. “Ah!” she said, anxiously; “is Marguerite with you?” “No.” “How is she?” “She is not well.” “Is she not coming?” “Did you expect her?” Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint: “I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to join you?” “No.” I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her face the fear of seeing my visit prolonged. “I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to do this evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company for her, and you can stay the night. I never saw her as she was to-day, and I am afraid she is going to be ill.” “I am dining in town,” replied Prudence, “and I can’t go and see Marguerite this evening. I will see her tomorrow.”