e, and would not wish to leave me in that condition.
But, if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the poor
girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in which
she had lived until now, and for which she had been so envied, without
crying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her for such regrets. I
waited for her impatiently, that I might say to her, as I covered her
with kisses, that I had guessed the reason of her mysterious absence.

Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return.

My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to oppress
my head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. Perhaps she
was injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would arrive with the news
of some dreadful accident. Perhaps the daylight would find me with the
same uncertainty and with the same fears.

The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very moment
when I waited for her in terror at her absence did not return to my
mind. There must be some cause, independent of her will, to keep her
away from me, and the more I thought, the more convinced I was that this
cause could only be some mishap or other. O vanity of man, coming back
to us in every form!

One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another hour, but
that at two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I would set out for
Paris. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for I dared not think. Manon
Lescaut was open on the table. It seemed to me that here and there
the pages were wet as if with tears. I turned the leaves over and then
closed the book, for the letters seemed to me void of meaning through
the veil of my doubts.

Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain lashed
the windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the aspect of a
tomb. I was afraid.

I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of the
wind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. The half
hour sounded sadly from the church tower.

I began to fear lest some one should enter. It seemed to me that only a
disaster could come at that hour and under that sombre sky.

Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of the bell
troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical stroke.

At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that melancholy
aspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives to all its
surrou