When Veneranda, who had slept soundly, awoke, she was much astonished to see me still in the same position.  She was a great devotee, but women’s piety easily gives place to pity, and she had moved to the furthest extremity of the bed with the intention of giving me another night of love.  But my melancholy prevented my profiting by her kindness.

I had ordered a saddle horse to be ready for me in the morning.  We took a hasty cup of coffee and bade each other mutual farewells.  I placed Marcoline in the carriage, gave her a last embrace, and waited for the crack of the postillion’s whip to gallop back to Lyons.  I tore along like a madman, for I felt as if I should like to send the horse to the ground and kill myself.  But death never comes to him that desires it, save in the fable of the worthy Lafontaine.  In six hours I had accomplished the eighteen leagues between Pont-Boivoisin and Lyons, only stopping to change horses.  I tore off my clothes and threw myself on the bed, where thirty hours before I had enjoyed all the delights of love.  I hoped that the bliss I had lost would return to me in my dreams.  However, I slept profoundly, and did not wake till eight o’clock.  I had been asleep about nineteen hours.

I rang for Clairmont, and told him to bring up my breakfast, which I devoured eagerly.  When my stomach was restored in this manner I fell asleep again, and did not get up till the next morning, feeling quite well, and as if I could support life a little longer.

Three days after Marcoline’s departure I bought a comfortable two-wheeled carriage with patent springs, and sent my trunks to Paris by the diligence.  I kept a portmanteau containing the merest necessaries, for I meant to travel in a dressing-gown and night-cap, and keep to myself all the way to Paris.  I intended this as a sort of homage to Marcoline, but I reckoned without my host.

I was putting my jewellery together in a casket when Clairmont announced a tradesman and his daughter, a pretty girl whom I had remarked at dinner, for since the departure of my fair Venetian I had dined at the table-d’hote by way of distraction.

I shut up my jewels and asked them to come in, and the father addressed me politely, saying,—­

“Sir, I have come to ask you to do me a favour which will cost you but little, while it will be of immense service to my daughter and myself.”

“What can I do for you?  I am leaving Lyons at day-break to-morrow.”

“I know it, for you said so at dinner; but we shall be ready at any hour.  Be kind enough to give my daughter a seat in your carriage.  I will, of course, pay for a third horse, and will ride post.”

“You cannot have seen the carriage.”