“I know that man l’Aigle,” I say; “he is a scoundrel.  Did he ask to marry Lucie?”

“No; he knew well enough that our consent would have been refused!”

“I wonder at Lucie acting in such a way.”

“He seduced her, and her running away made us suspect the truth, for she had become very stout.”

“Had he known her long?”

“About a month after your last visit she saw him for the first time.  He must have thrown a spell over her, for our Lucie was as pure as a dove, and you can, I believe, bear testimony to her goodness.”

“And no one knows where they are?”

“No one.  God alone knows what this villain will do with her.”

I grieved as much as the unfortunate parents; I went out and took a long ramble in the woods to give way to my sad feelings.  During two hours I cogitated over considerations, some true, some false, which were all prefaced by an if.  If I had paid this visit, as I might have done, a week sooner, loving Lucie would have confided in me, and I would have prevented that self-murder.  If I had acted with her as with Nanette and Marton, she would not have been left by me in that state of ardent excitement which must have proved the principal cause of her fault, and she would not have fallen a prey to that scoundrel.  If she had not known me before meeting the courier, her innocent soul would never have listened to such a man.  I was in despair, for in my conscience I acknowledged myself the primary agent of this infamous seduction; I had prepared the way for the villain.

Had I known where to find Lucie, I would certainly have gone forth on the instant to seek for her, but no trace whatever of her whereabouts had been discovered.

Before I had been made acquainted with Lucie’s misfortune I felt great pride at having had sufficient power over myself to respect her innocence; but after hearing what had happened I was ashamed of my own reserve, and I promised myself that for the future I would on that score act more wisely.  I felt truly miserable when my imagination painted the probability of the unfortunate girl being left to poverty and shame, cursing the remembrance of me, and hating me as the first cause of her misery.  This fatal event caused me to adopt a new system, which in after years I carried sometimes rather too far.

I joined the cheerful guests of the countess in the gardens, and received such a welcome that I was soon again in my usual spirits, and at dinner I delighted everyone.

My sorrow was so great that it was necessary either to drive it away at once or to leave Pasean.  But a new life crept into my being as I examined the face and the disposition of the newly-married lady.  Her sister was prettier, but I was beginning to feel afraid of a novice; I thought the work too great.