ed with the sad conviction that you
had not come home. This morning, M. F. sent an officer to tell you that
he wanted to see you, and I heard the messenger inform him that you were
not yet up, and that you had come home very late. I felt my heart swell
with sorrow. I am not jealous, dearest, for I know that you cannot love
anyone but me; I only felt afraid of some misfortune. At last, this
morning, when I heard you coming, I was happy, because I was ready to
skew my repentance, but I looked at you, and you seemed a different man.
Now, I am still looking at you, and, in spite of myself, my soul reads
upon your countenance that you are guilty, that you have outraged my
love. Tell me at once, dearest, if I am mistaken; if you have deceived
me, say so openly. Do not be unfaithful to love and to truth. Knowing
that I was the cause of it, I should never forgive my self, but there is
an excuse for you in my heart, in my whole being."

More than once, in the course of my life, I have found myself under the
painful necessity of telling falsehoods to the woman I loved; but in this
case, after so true, so touching an appeal, how could I be otherwise than
sincere? I felt myself sufficiently debased by my crime, and I could not
degrade myself still more by falsehood. I was so far from being disposed
to such a line of conduct that I could not speak, and I burst out crying.

"What, my darling! you are weeping! Your tears make me miserable. You
ought not to have shed any with me but tears of happiness and love.
Quick, my beloved, tell me whether you have made me wretched. Tell me
what fearful revenge you have taken on me, who would rather die than
offend you. If I have caused you any sorrow, it has been in the innocence
of a loving and devoted heart."

"My own darling angel, I never thought of revenge, for my heart, which
can never cease to adore you, could never conceive such a dreadful idea.
It is against my own heart that my cowardly weakness has allured me to
the commission of a crime which, for the remainder of my life, makes me
unworthy of you."

"Have you, then, given yourself to some wretched woman?"

"Yes, I have spent two hours in the vilest debauchery, and my soul was
present only to be the witness of my sadness, of my remorse, of my
unworthiness."

"Sadness and remorse! Oh, my poor friend! I believe it. But it is my
fault; I alone ought to suffer; it is I who must beg you to forgive me."

Her tears made mine flow aga