I strove to banish the horrible suspicion which suddenly forced itself into my mind.  “No,” I said to myself, “so much innocence and beauty can not be capable of deception; no doubt she has forgotten her fan or her embroidery, on one of the benches there.”  But instead of making her way toward the benches I noticed on the right, the young wife turned to the left, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the grove in which was hidden the mysterious turret.

My heart ached.  “Where is she going, the hapless woman?” I exclaimed to myself.  “At any rate, I will not let her imagine any one is watching her.”  And I hurriedly blew out my candle.  I wanted to close my window, go to bed, and see nothing more, but an invincible curiosity took me back to the window.  I had only been there a few minutes when I plainly distinguished halting and timid footsteps on the gravel.  I could see no one at first, but there was no doubt that the footsteps were those of a man.  I soon had a proof that I was not mistaken; the elongated outline of the cousin showed up clearly against the dark mass of shrubbery.  I should have liked to have stopped him, the wretch, for his intention was evident; he was making his way toward the thicket in which the little queen had disappeared.  I should have liked to shout to him, “You are a villain; you shall go no farther.”  But had I really any right to act thus?  I was silent, but I coughed, however, loud enough to be heard by him.

He suddenly paused in his uneasy walk, looked round on all sides with visible anxiety, then, seized by I know not what impulse, darted toward the pavilion.  I was overwhelmed.  What ought I to do?  Warn my friend, my childhood’s companion?  Yes, no doubt, but I felt ashamed to pour despair into the mind of this good fellow and to cause a horrible exposure.  “If he can be kept in ignorance,” I said to myself, “and then perhaps I am wrong—­who knows?  Perhaps this rendezvous is due to the most natural motive possible.”

I was seeking to deceive myself, to veil the evidence of my own eyes, when suddenly one of the house doors opened noisily, and Oscar—­Oscar himself, in all the disorder of night attire, his hair rumpled, and his dressing-gown floating loosely, passed before my window.  He ran rather than walked; but the anguish of his heart was too plainly revealed in the strangeness of his movements.  He knew all.  I felt that a mishap was inevitable.  “Behold the outcome of all his happiness, behold the bitter poison enclosed in so fair a vessel!” All these thoughts shot through my mind like arrows.  It was necessary above all to delay the explosion, were it only for a moment, a second, and, beside myself, without giving myself time to think of what I was going to say to him, I cried in a sharp imperative tone: 

“Oscar, come here; I want to speak to you.”

He stopped as if petrified.  He was ghastly pale, and, with an infernal smile, replied, “I have no time-later on.”