Noel adored Juliette.  Until the fatal day he saw her, he had lived like a sage.  This, his first passion, burned him up; and, from the disaster, he saved only appearances.

The four walls remained standing, but the interior of the edifice was destroyed.  Even heroes have their vulnerable parts, Achilles died from a wound in the heel.  The most artfully constructed armour has a flaw somewhere.  Noel was assailable by means of Juliette, and through her was at the mercy of everything and every one.  In four years, this model young man, this advocate of immaculate reputation, this austere moralist, had squandered not only his own fortune on her, but Madame Gerdy’s also.  He loved her madly, without reflection, without measure, with his eyes shut.  At her side, he forgot all prudence, and thought out loud.  In her boudoir, he dropped his mask of habitual dissimulation, and his vices displayed themselves, at ease, as his limbs in a bath.  He felt himself so powerless against her, that he never essayed to struggle.  She possessed him.  Once or twice he attempted to firmly oppose her ruinous caprices; but she had made him pliable as the osier.  Under the dark glances of this girl, his strongest resolutions melted more quickly than snow beneath an April sun.  She tortured him; but she had also the power to make him forget all by a smile, a tear, or a kiss.  Away from the enchantress, reason returned at intervals, and, in his lucid moments, he said to himself, “She does not love me.  She is amusing herself at my expense!” But the belief in her love had taken such deep root in his heart that he could not pluck it forth.  He made himself a monster of jealousy, and then argued with himself respecting her fidelity.  On several occasions he had strong reasons to doubt her constancy, but he never had the courage to declare his suspicions.  “If I am not mistaken, I shall either have to leave her,” thought he, “or accept everything in the future.”  At the idea of a separation from Juliette, he trembled, and felt his passion strong enough to compel him to submit to the lowest indignity.  He preferred even these heartbreaking doubts to a still more dreadful certainty.

The presence of the maid who took a considerable time in arranging the tea-table gave Noel an opportunity to recover himself.  He looked at Juliette; and his anger took flight.  Already he began to ask himself if he had not been a little cruel to her.  When Charlotte retired, he came and took a seat on the divan beside his mistress, and attempted to put his arms round her.  “Come,” said he in a caressing tone, “you have been angry enough for this evening.  If I have done wrong, you have punished me sufficiently.  Kiss me, and make it up.”

She repulsed him angrily, and said in a dry tone,—­“Let me alone!  How many times must I tell you that I am very unwell this evening.”

“You suffer, my love?” resumed the advocate, “where?  Shall I send for the doctor?”