“Is that your final decision?  Cannot reflection alter it in any way?”

“In no way.”

“Farewell then, sir—­ah! unhappy woman that I am!—­farewell!”

She grasped my hand, which she wrung convulsively, and then left me.

After she had disappeared, I sat down on the bench, upon which she had been seated.  There, my dear Paul, my whole strength gave way.  I hid my head in my hands and I wept like a child.  Thank God, she did not return!

I had at last to gather all my courage in order to appear once more and for a moment in the ball-room.  There was nothing to indicate that my absence had been noticed, or unfavorably commented upon.  Madame de Palme was dancing and displaying a degree of gayety amounting almost to delirium.  Soon after, supper was announced, and I availed myself of the general commotion attending that incident, to retire to my room.

Early this morning, I requested a private interview with Madame de Malouet.  It appeared to me that my entire confidence was due to her.  She heard me with profound sadness, but without manifesting any surprise.

“I had guessed,” she told me, “something of the kind—­I did not sleep all night.  I believe that you have done your duty as a wise man and as an honest man.  Yes, you have.  Still, it seems very hard.  Society life is detestable in this, that it creates fictitious characters and passions, unexpected situations, subtle shades, which complicate strangely the practice of duty, and obscure the straight path which ought to be always simple and easy to discover.  And now you wish to leave, I suppose?”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Very well; but you had better stay two or three days longer.  You will thus remove from your departure the semblance of flight which, after what may have been observed, might prove somewhat ridiculous and perhaps damaging.  It is a sacrifice I ask of you.  To-day, we are all to dine at Madame de Breuilly’s; I’ll undertake to excuse you.  In this manner, this day at least will rest lightly upon you.  To-morrow, we’ll act for the best.  Day after to-morrow, you can leave.”

I accepted these terms.  I shall soon see you again, then, Paul.  But in the meantime, how lonely and forsaken I feel!  How I long to grasp your firm and loyal hand; to hear your voice tell me:  “You have done right!”

CHAPTER VIII.

“I AM A DISGRACED WOMAN.”

ROZEL, October 10.

Here I am back in my cell, my friend.  Why did I ever leave it?  Never has a man felt a more troubled heart beat between these cold walls, than my own wretched heart!  Ah!  I will not curse our poor human reason, our philosophy; are they not, after all, the noblest and best conquests of our nature?  But, great Heaven! how little they amount to!  What unreliable guides, and what feeble supports!  Listen to a sad story:  Yesterday, thanks to Madame