of a life which, she hopes, will
not be very long now."

When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For
a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed
before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myself
a little. I looked about me, and was astonished to see the life of
others continue without pausing at my distress.

I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered that
my father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes,
and that, whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it.

I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the
key in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was reading. He
showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was
expecting me. I flung myself into his arms without saying a word. I gave
him Marguerite's letter, and, falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept
hot tears.

Chapter 23

When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not believe
that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those which had
preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that some circumstance,
which I could not recollect, had obliged me to spend the night away from
Marguerite, but that, if I returned to Bougival, I should find her again
as anxious as I had been, and that she would ask me what had detained me
away from her so long.

When one's existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this love,
it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without at the same
time breaking all the other springs of life. I was forced from time to
time to reread Marguerite's letter, in order to convince myself that I
had not been dreaming.

My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of movement.
Anxiety, the night walk, and the morning's news had prostrated me. My
father profited by this total prostration of all my faculties to demand
of me a formal promise to accompany him. I promised all that he asked,
for I was incapable of sustaining a discussion, and I needed some
affection to help me to live, after what had happened. I was too
thankful that my father was willing to console me under such a calamity.

All that I remember is that on that day, about five o'clock, he took me
with him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had had my luggage
packed and put up behind the chaise with his own, and so he carried me
off. I did