As I was coming down from my room for dinner, I met Madame de Malouet in the vestibule.

“Well!” she said, laughingly, “did you conform to the prescription?”

“Rigidly, madam.”

“You showed yourself subjugated?

“I did, madam.”

“Excellent!  She is satisfied now, and so are you.”

“Amen!” I said.

The evening passed off without further incident.

I took pleasure in doing for Madame de Palme some trifling services which she was no longer asking.  She left the dance two or three times to come and address me some good-natured jests that passed through her brain, and when I withdrew, she followed me to the door with a smiling and cordial look.

I ask you now, friend Paul, to sift the precise meaning and the moral of this tale.  You may perhaps judge, and I hope you will, that a chimerical imagination can alone magnify into an event this vulgar episode of society life; but if you see in the facts I have just told you the least germ of danger, the slightest element of a serious complication, tell me so; I’ll break the engagements that were to detain me here some ten or twelve days longer, and I’ll leave at once.

I do not love Madame de Palme; I cannot and will not love her.  My opinion of her has evidently changed greatly; I look upon her henceforth as a good little woman.  Her head is light and will always be so; her behavior is better than she gets credit for, though perhaps not as good as she represents it herself; finally, her heart has both weight and value.  I feel some friendship for her, an affection that has something fraternal in it; but between her and me, nothing further is at all likely; the expanse of the heavens divides us.  The idea of being her husband makes me burst out laughing, and though a sentiment which you will readily appreciate, the thought of being her lover inspires me with horror.  As to her, I believe she may feel the shadow of a caprice, but not even the dawn of a passion.  Here I am now upon her etagere with the rest of the figure-heads, and I think, as does Madame de Malouet, that may be enough to satisfy her.  However, what do you think of it yourself?

[B] The German.

CHAPTER VII.

A MISDIRECTED PASSION.

7th October.

Dear Paul, I take part in your grief from the bottom of my heart.  Allow me, however, to assure you, from the very details of your own letter that your dear mother’s illness offers no alarming symptoms whatever.  It is one of those painful but harmless crises which the approach of winter brings back upon her almost invariably every year, as you know.  Patience therefore, and courage, I beseech you.

It requires, my friend, the formal expression of your wishes to induce me to venture upon mingling my petty troubles with your grave solicitude.  As you anticipated in your wisdom and in your kind friendship, it was consolation and not advice that I stood in need of when I received your letter.  My heart is not at peace, and, what is worse for me, neither is my conscience; and yet, I think I have done my duty.  Have I understood it right or not?  Judge for yourself.