it; I fell on one
knee.

Then I saw my enemy running up to me with an expression of great anxiety
on his face, and very pale. Seeing that I was wounded, my seconds
hastened to my side, but he pushed them aside and seized my wounded
arm. His teeth were set, and I could see that he was suffering intense
anguish. His agony was as frightful as man can experience.

"Go!" he cried; "go, stanch your wound at the house of-----"

He choked, and so did I.

I was placed in a cab, where I found a physician. My wound was not
dangerous, the bone being untouched, but I was in such a state of
excitation that it was impossible properly to dress my wound. As they
were about to drive from the field I saw a trembling hand at the door of
my cab; it was that of my adversary. I shook my head in reply; I was
in such a rage that I could not pardon him, although I felt that his
repentance was sincere.

By the time I reached home I had lost much blood and felt relieved, for
feebleness saved me from the anger which was doing me more harm than my
wound. I willingly retired to my bed and called for a glass of water,
which I gulped down with relish.

But I was soon attacked by fever. It was then I began to shed tears. I
could understand that my mistress had ceased to love me, but not that
she could deceive me. I could not comprehend why a woman, who was forced
to it by neither duty nor interest, could lie to one man when she loved
another. Twenty times a day I asked my friend Desgenais how that could
be possible.

"If I were her husband," I said, "or if I supported her, I could easily
understand how she might be tempted to deceive me; but if she no longer
loves me, why deceive me?"

I did not understand how any one could lie for love; I was but a child,
then, but I confess that I do not understand it yet. Every time I have
loved a woman I have told her of it, and when I ceased to love her I
have confessed it with the same sincerity, having always thought that
in matters of this kind the will was not concerned and that there was no
crime but falsehood.

To all this Desgenais replied:

"She is unworthy; promise me that you will never see her again."

I solemnly promised. He advised me, moreover, not to write to her, not
even to reproach her, and if she wrote to me not to reply. I promised
all, with some surprise that he should consider it necessary to exact
such a pledge.

Nevertheless, the first thing I did when I was able to leave my