and I hope it is true; but, by all that is sacred, if I am your
lover to-night, no one shall take my place tomorrow. Before God, before
God," I repeated, "I would not take you back as my mistress, for I hate
you as much as I love you. Before God, if you wish to stay here to-night
I will kill you in the morning."

When I had spoken these words I fell into a delirium. She threw her
cloak over her shoulders and fled from the room.

When I told Desgenais about it he said:

"Why did you do that? You must be very much disgusted, for she is a
beautiful woman."

"Are you joking?" I asked. "Do you think such a woman could be my
mistress? Do you think I would ever consent to share her with another?
Do you know that she confesses that another attracts her, and do you
expect me, loving her as I do, to share my love? If that is the way you
love, I pity you."

Desgenais replied that he was not so particular.

"My dear Octave," he added, "you are very young. You want many things,
beautiful things, which do not exist. You believe in a singular sort
of love; perhaps you are capable of it; I believe you are, but I do not
envy you. You will have other mistresses, my friend, and you will live
to regret what happened last night. If that woman came to you it is
certain that she loved you; perhaps she does not love you at this
moment--indeed, she may be in the arms of another; but she loved you
last night in that room; and what should you care for the rest? You
will regret it, believe me, for she will not come again. A woman
pardons everything except such a slight. Her love for you must have been
something terrible when she came to you knowing and confessing herself
guilty, risking rebuff and contempt at your hands. Believe me, you will
regret it, for I am satisfied that you will soon be cured."

There was such an air of simple conviction about my friend's words,
such a despairing certainty based on experience, that I shuddered as
I listened. While he was speaking I felt a strong desire to go to my
mistress, or to write to her to come to me. I was so weak that I could
not leave my bed, and that saved me from the shame of finding her
waiting for my rival or perhaps in his company. But I could write to
her; in spite of myself I doubted whether she would come if I should
write.

When Desgenais left me I became so desperate that I resolved to put an
end to my trouble. After a terrible struggle, horror got the better of
love. I wrote my