For some days my agony of mind had been intense.  My only method of escaping from it had been to drink heavily at supper, so that I might be almost stupefied at the hour, for me so painful and so galling, when she would leave the drawing-room after kissing her father, giving her hand to M. de la Marche, and saying as she passed by me, “Good-night, Bernard,” in a tone which seemed to say, “To-day has ended like yesterday, and to-morrow will end like to-day.”

In vain would I go and sit in the arm-chair nearest her door, so that she could not pass without at least her dress brushing against me; this was all I ever got from her.  I would not put out my hand to beg her own, for she might have given it with an air of unconcern, and I verily believe I should have crushed it in my anger.

Thanks to my large libations at supper, I generally succeeded in besotting myself, silently and sadly.  I then used to sink into my favourite arm-chair and remain there, sullen and drowsy, until the fumes of the wine had passed away, and I could go and air my wild dreams and sinister plans in the park.

None seemed to notice this gross habit of mine.  They showed me such kindness and indulgence in the family that they seemed afraid to express disapproval, however much I deserved it.  Nevertheless, they were well aware of my shameful passion for wine, and the abbe informed Edmee of it.  One evening at supper she looked at me fixedly several times and with a strange expression.  I stared at her in return, hoping that she would say something to provoke me, but we got no further than an exchange of malevolent glances.  On leaving the table she whispered to me very quickly, and in an imperious tone: 

“Break yourself of this drinking, and pay attention to what the abbe has to say to you.”

This order and tone of authority, so far from filling me with hope, seemed to me so revolting that all my timidity vanished in a moment.  I waited for the hour when she usually went up to her room and, going out a little before her, took up my position on the stairs.

“Do you think,” I said to her when she appeared, “that I am the dupe of your lies, and that I have not seen perfectly, during the month I have been here, without your speaking a word to me, that you are merely fooling me, as if I were a booby?  You lied to me and now you despise me because I was honest enough to believe your word.”

“Bernard,” she said, in a cold tone, “this is neither the time nor the place for an explanation.”

“Oh, I know well enough,” I replied, “that, according to you, it will never be the time or the place.  But I shall manage to find both, do not fear.  You said that you loved me.  You threw your arms about my neck and said, as you kissed me—­yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my cheeks:  ’Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.’  I can see through it; you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right.  But you will gain nothing by it.  I swear that you shall not trifle with me long.”