ck to her; she will do you credit."

These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my
susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had
spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish
letter which I had written.

I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to tell
Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that she would
revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see me, and I
returned home, after passing through the Rue d'Antin. Again I asked my
porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! She is waiting to see if I
shall take some fresh step, and if I retract my letter of to-day, I said
to myself as I went to bed; but, seeing that I do not write, she will
write to me to-morrow.

That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had done. I
was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and jealousy, when
by simply letting things take their natural course I should have been
with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words which I had heard only
twice, and which made my ears burn in my solitude.

The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was
against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that
Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with me in
the country, then the certainty that there was no reason why she should
be my mistress, since my income was insufficient for her needs and even
for her caprices. There could not then have been on her part anything
but the hope of finding in me a sincere affection, able to give her
rest from the mercenary loves in whose midst she lived; and on the very
second day I had destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for
the love which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was
therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not even
paid the woman, that I might have some right to find fault with her;
withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite of love, afraid of
having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I had only known Marguerite
for thirty-six hours; I had been her lover for only twenty-four; and
instead of being too happy that she should grant me all that she did,
I wanted to have her all to myself, and to make her sever at one stroke
all her past relations which were the revenue of her future. What had I
to reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to say she was unwell, when
sh