aid at the end of his letter that he was to dine out. In the absence
of Madame Fusellier, who had gone to the country, he should go to a
wine-shop of the Rue Royale where he was known. And there, in the
indistinct crowd, he should be alone with her.

Therese, made languid by the softness of invisible caresses, closed her
eyes and threw back her head on the armchair. When she heard the noise of
the carriage coming near the house, she opened the second letter. As soon
as she saw the altered handwriting of it, the lines precipitate and
uneven, the distracted look of the address, she was troubled.

Its obscure beginning indicated sudden anguish and black suspicion:
"Therese, Therese, why did you give yourself to me if you were not giving
yourself to me wholly? How does it serve me that you have deceived me,
now that I know what I did not wish to know?"

She stopped; a veil came over her eyes. She thought:

"We were so happy a moment ago. What has happened? And I was so pleased
at his joy, when it had already gone; it would be better not to write,
since letters show only vanished sentiments and effaced ideas."

She read further. And seeing that he was full of jealousy, she felt
discouraged.

"If I have not proved to him that I love him with all my strength, that I
love him with all there is in me, how am I ever to persuade him of it?"

And she was impatient to discover the cause of his folly. Jacques told
it. While taking breakfast in the Rue Royale he had met a former
companion who had just returned from the seaside. They had talked
together; chance made that man speak of the Countess Martin, whom he
knew. And at once, interrupting the narration, Jacques exclaimed:
"Therese, Therese, why did you lie to me, since I was sure to learn some
day that of which I alone was ignorant? But the error is mine more than
yours. The letter which you put into the San Michele post-box, your
meeting at the Florence station, would have enlightened me if I had not
obstinately retained my illusions and disdained evidence.

"I did not know; I wished to remain ignorant. I did not ask you anything,
from fear that you might not be able to continue to lie; I was prudent;
and it has happened that an idiot suddenly, brutally, at a restaurant
table, has opened my eyes and forced me to know. Oh, now that I know, now
that I can not doubt, it seems to me that to doubt would be delicious! He
gave the name--the name which I heard at Fiesole from Miss