a beautiful girl who is waiting impatiently for the man who is
with her to go, thinking of you, keeping the whole night for you, and
who loves you, I am certain. Now, come to the window with me, and let us
watch for the count to go; he won't be long in leaving the coast clear."

Prudence opened the window, and we leaned side by side over the balcony.
She watched the few passers, I reflected. All that she had said buzzed
in my head, and I could not help feeling that she was right; but
the genuine love which I had for Marguerite had some difficulty in
accommodating itself to such a belief. I sighed from time to time, at
which Prudence turned, and shrugged her shoulders like a physician who
has given up his patient.

"How one realizes the shortness of life," I said to myself, "by the
rapidity of sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two days,
she has only been my mistress since yesterday, and she has already so
completely absorbed my thoughts, my heart, and my life that the visit of
the Comte de G. is a misfortune for me."

At last the count came out, got into his carriage and disappeared.
Prudence closed the window. At the same instant Marguerite called to us:

"Come at once," she said; "they are laying the table, and we'll have
supper."

When I entered, Marguerite ran to me, threw her arms around my neck and
kissed me with all her might.

"Are we still sulky?" she said to me.

"No, it is all over," replied Prudence. "I have given him a talking to,
and he has promised to be reasonable."

"Well and good."

In spite of myself I glanced at the bed; it was not unmade. As for
Marguerite, she was already in her white dressing-gown. We sat down to
table.

Charm, sweetness, spontaneity, Marguerite had them all, and I was forced
from time to time to admit that I had no right to ask of her anything
else; that many people would be very happy to be in my place; and that,
like Virgil's shepherd, I had only to enjoy the pleasures that a god, or
rather a goddess, set before me.

I tried to put in practice the theories of Prudence, and to be as gay
as my two companions; but what was natural in them was on my part an
effort, and the nervous laughter, whose source they did not detect, was
nearer to tears than to mirth.

At last the supper was over and I was alone with Marguerite. She sat
down as usual on the hearthrug before the fire and gazed sadly into the
flames. What was she thinking of? I know not. As for me, I