ve, and nothing but her love.

At last we got to our last glass of champagne, we rose from the table,
and sentimentally but with gentle force I laid her on a couch and held
her amorously in my arms. But instead of giving herself up to my embraces
she resisted them, at first by those prayers which usually make lovers
more enterprising, then by serious remonstrances, and at last by force.
This was too much, the mere idea of using violence has always shocked me,
and I am still of opinion that the only pleasure in the amorous embrace
springs from perfect union and agreement. I pleaded my cause in every
way, I painted myself as the lover flattered, deceived, despised! At last
I told her that I had had a cruel awakening, and I saw that the shaft
went home. I fell on my knees and begged her to forgive me. "Alas!" said
she, in a voice full of sadness, "I am no longer mistress of my heart,
and have far greater cause for grief than you." The tears flowed fast
down her cheeks, her head rested on my shoulder, and our lips met; but
for all that the piece was over. The idea of renewing the attack never
came into my head, and if it had I should have scornfully rejected it.
After a long silence, of which we both stood in need, she to conquer her
shame, and I to repress my anger, we put on our masks and returned to the
opera. On our way she dared to tell me that she should be obliged to
decline my friendship if she had to pay for it so dearly.

"The emotions of love," I replied, "should yield to those of honour, and
your honour as well as mine require us to continue friends. What I would
have done for love I will now do for devoted friendship, and for the
future I will die rather than make another attempt to gain those favours
of which I thought you deemed me worthy."

We separated at the opera, and the vast crowd made me lose sight of her
in an instant. Next day she told me that she had danced all night. She
possibly hoped to find in that exercise the cure which no medicine seemed
likely to give her.

I returned to my house in a bad humour, trying in vain to justify a
refusal which seemed humiliating and almost incredible. My good sense
shewed me, in spite of all sophisms, that I had been grievously insulted.
I recollected the witty saying of Populia, who was never unfaithful to
her husband except when she was with child; "Non tollo vectorem," said
she, "nisi navi plena."

I felt certain that I was not loved, and the thought grieve