It was almost a relief to think that for this evening, at least, it would not be to Phillis, for at this moment she would be at his rooms, anxiously awaiting his return.  He felt a sadness and a revulsion at the thought that she might be the first to learn the truth.  He did not wish that, and he would prevent it.

This preoccupation gave him an object; he reached the Rue Louis-le-Grand thinking more of Phillis than of himself.  What distress when she should know all!  How could she support this blow, and with what sentiments would it inspire her, with what judgment for the man whom she loved?  Poor girl!  He grew tender at the thought.  As for him, he was lost, and it was his fault; he bore the penalty of his own stupidity.  But Phillis—­it would be a blow to her love that she must bear.  And what a blow to this sensitive heart, to this proud and noble soul!

Perhaps he would now see her for the last time, for this one hour, and never again.  Then he would be kind to her, and leave her a memory that, later, would be an alleviation to her sorrow, a warm, bright ray in her time of mourning.  During these last few days he had been hard, brutal, irritable, strange, and with her habitual serenity she had overlooked it all.  When he pushed her from him with his heavy hand, she had kissed this hand, fastening on him her beautiful, tender eyes, full of passionate caresses.  He must make her forget that, and she must carry from their last interview a tender impression that would sustain her.

What could he do for her?  He remembered how happy she had been at their impromptu dinners six months before, and he would give her this same pleasure.  He would see her happy again, and near her, under her glance, perhaps he would forget tomorrow.

He went to the caterer who furnished him with breakfast, and ordered two dinners to be sent to his rooms immediately.

Before he could put the key in the lock, his door was opened by Phillis, who recognized his step on the landing.

“Well?”

“Your brother is saved.”

“Madame Dammauville will go to court?”

“I promise you that he is saved.”

“By you?”

“Yes, by me—­exactly.”

In her access of joy, she did not notice the accent on these last words.

“Then you forgive me?”

He took her in his arms, and kissing her with deep emotion said: 

“With all my heart, I swear it!”

“You see it was written that you should see Madame Dammauville, in spite of yourself, in spite of all; it was providential.”

“It is certain that your friend Providence could not interfere more opportunely in my affairs.”

This time she was struck by the tone of his voice; but she imagined that it was only this allusion to superior intervention that had vexed him.

“It was of ourselves that I thought,” she said, “not of you.”

“I understood.  But do not let us talk of that; you are happy, and I do not wish to shadow your joy.  On the contrary, I thought to associate myself with it by giving you a surprise:  we are going to dine together.”