woman so much that I could not suddenly become
indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. Above all, whatever I
felt for her, I had to see her again, and at once. This desire possessed
my mind, and with all the violence of a will which had begun to reassert
itself in a body so long inert.

It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I had to
see her the very next day after the day when the thought had occurred to
me; and I went to my father and told him that I had been called to Paris
on business, but that I should return promptly. No doubt he guessed the
reason of my departure, for he insisted that I should stay, but, seeing
that if I did not carry out my intention the consequences, in the state
in which I was, might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost,
with tears, to return without delay.

I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going to
do? I did not know; I only knew that it must be something connected with
Marguerite. I went to my rooms to change my clothes, and, as the weather
was fine and it was still early, I made my way to the Champs-Elysees. At
the end of half an hour I saw Marguerite's carriage, at some distance,
coming from the Rond-Point to the Place de la Concorde. She had
repurchased her horses, for the carriage was just as I was accustomed
to see it, but she was not in it. Scarcely had I noticed this fact, when
looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, accompanied by a woman whom
I had never seen.

As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened about
her lips. For my part, my heart beat violently in my breast; but I
succeeded in giving a cold expression to my face, as I bowed coldly to
my former mistress, who just then reached her carriage, into which she
got with her friend.

I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have upset
her. No doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had thus been
reassured as to the consequences of our rupture; but, seeing me again
in Paris, finding herself face to face with me, pale as I was, she must
have realized that I had not returned without purpose, and she must have
asked herself what that purpose was.

If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon her,
I could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven her, and
certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an injury. But I found
her apparently happy, some one else had restored to her t