As to myself, my friend, it would be difficult to depict the chaos of emotions and thoughts that tossed and tumbled in my brain.  The feeling that swayed me perhaps with the greatest violence, was that of hatred against that man—­a feeling of implacable hatred, of eternal hatred.  I was, however, more shocked and more distressed than surprised at the choice that had been made of him; he had happened in the way, and he had been taken up with a sort of indifference and of scorn, as one picks up any weapon to commit suicide with, when once the suicide has been resolved upon.  As to my feelings toward her, you may guess them; not a shadow of anger, frightful sadness, tender compassion, vague remorse, and above all, passionate, furious regret.  I realized at last how much I had loved her!  I could scarcely understand the motives which, two days before, had appeared to me so powerful, so imperative, and which had seemed to raise between her and me an insurmountable barrier.  All these obstacles of the past disappeared before the abyss of the present which seemed the only real one, the only one that was impossible to overcome, the only one that ever existed.  Strange fact!  I could see clearly, as clearly as I saw the sun, that the impossible, the irreparable was there, and I could not accept it, I could not submit to it.  I could see that woman lost to me as irrevocably as if the grave had closed over her coffin, and I could not give her up!  My mind wandered through insane projects and resolutions; I thought of picking a quarrel with Monsieur de Mauterne, and compelling him to fight on the spot.  I felt that I would have crushed him!  Then I thought of fleeing with her, of marrying her, of taking her with her shame, after having refused her pure!  Yes, this madness tempted me!  To remove it from my thoughts, I had to repeat a hundred times to myself that mutual disgust and dispair were the only fruits that could ever be expected of that union of a dishonored hand with a bloody hand.  Ah; Paul, how much I did suffer!

Madame de Palme manifested during the entire course of our ride a feverish excitement which betrayed itself more particularly in reckless feats of horsemanship.  I heard at intervals her loud bursts of merriment, that sounded to my ears like heart-rending wails.  Once again she spoke to me as she was going by.

“I inspire you with horror, don’t I?” she said.

I shook my head and dropped my eyes without replying.

We returned to the chateau at about four o’clock.  I was making my way to my room when a confused tumult of voices, shrieks, and hurried steps in the vestibule chilled my heart.  I went down again in all haste, and I was informed that Madame de Palme had just been taken with a nervous fit.  She had been carried into the parlor.  I recognized through the door the grave and gentle voice of Madame de Malouet, to which was mingled I know not what moan, like that of a sick child.  I ran away.  I was resolved