bout twelve. My
father had gone out.

I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No one
had called. I went to the solicitor's. No one was there. I went back to
the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not return, and I went back
to Bougival.

I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day before,
but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made necessary. She was
so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close to her chair without her
hearing me. When I put my lips to her forehead she started as if the
kiss had suddenly awakened her.

"You frightened me," she said. "And your father?"

"I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at his
hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding him."

"Well, you must try again to-morrow."

"I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I have
done all that can be expected of me."

"No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father again,
and you must call to-morrow."

"Why to-morrow rather than any other day?"

"Because," said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed
slightly at this question, "because it will show that you are the more
keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner."

For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. I had
to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an answer. She
ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard to the events which
had happened during the last two days. I spent the night in reassuring
her, and she sent me away in the morning with an insistent disquietude
that I could not explain to myself.

Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me:

"If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in by
four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you."

I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I returned
to Bougival.

The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found her
feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms around my neck,
but she cried for a long time in my arms. I questioned her as to this
sudden distress, which alarmed me by its violence. She gave me no
positive reason, but put me off with those evasions which a woman
resorts to when she will not tell the truth.

When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my visit,
and I showed her my father's letter, from which, I said, we might