“We sold that yesterday to a young gentleman,” he said.  And from the description I gave him of my traitor Gaston, not a doubt was left of his identity.  I will spare you the palpitations which rent my heart during that journey to Paris and the little scene there, which marked the turning-point of my life.

By half-seven I was home again, and Gaston found me, fresh and blooming, in my morning dress, sauntering about with a make-believe nonchalance.  I felt confident that old Philippe, who had been taken into my confidence, would not have betrayed my absence.

“Gaston,” I said, as we walked by the side of the lake, “you cannot blind me to the difference between a work of art inspired by friendship and something which has been cast in a mould.”

He turned white, and fixed his eyes on me rather than on the damaging piece of evidence I thrust before them.

“My dear,” I went on, “this is not a whip; it is a screen behind which you are hiding something from me.”

Thereupon I gave myself the gratification of watching his hopeless entanglement in the coverts and labyrinths of deceit and the desperate efforts he made to find some wall he might scale and thus escape.  In vain; he had perforce to remain upon the field, face to face with an adversary, who at last laid down her arms in a feigned complacence.  But it was too late.  The fatal mistake, against which my mother had tried to warm me, was made.  My jealousy, exposed in all its nakedness, had led to war and all its stratagems between Gaston and myself.  Jealousy, dear, has neither sense nor decency.

I made up my mind now to suffer in silence, but to keep my eyes open, until my doubts were resolved one way or another.  Then I would either break with Gaston or bow to my misfortune:  no middle course is possible for a woman who respects herself.

What can he be concealing?  For a secret there is, and the secret has to do with a woman.  Is it some youthful escapade for which he still blushes?  But if so, what?  The word what is written in letters of fire on all I see.  I read it in the glassy water of my lake, in the shrubbery, in the clouds, on the ceilings, at table, in the flowers of the carpets.  A voice cries to me what? in my sleep.  Dating from the morning of my discovery, a cruel interest has sprung into our lives, and I have become familiar with the bitterest thought that can corrode the heart—­the thought of treachery in him one loves.  Oh! my dear, there is heaven and hell together in such a life.  Never had I felt this scorching flame, I to whom love had appeared only in the form of devoutest worship.

“So you wished to know the gloomy torture-chamber of pain!” I said to myself.  Good, the spirits of evil have heard your prayer; go on your road, unhappy wretch!

May 30th.

Since that fatal day Gaston no longer works with the careless ease of the wealthy artist, whose work is merely pastime; he sets himself tasks like a professional writer.  Four hours a day he devotes to finishing his two plays.