I can not express my state of mind.  That a woman who had so long been the idol of my heart, and who, since I had lost her, had caused me such deep affliction, the only one I had ever loved, for whom indeed I might sorrow till death, should become suddenly a shameless wretch, the subject of coarse jests, of universal censure and scandal!  It seemed to me that I felt on my shoulder the brand of a glowing iron and that I was marked with a burning stigma.

The more I reflected, the more the darkness thickened about me.  From time to time I turned my head and saw a cold smile or a curious glance.  Desgenais did not leave me; he knew very well what he was doing, and saw that I might go to any lengths in my present desperate condition.

When he found that he had brought me to the desired point, he did not hesitate to deal the finishing stroke.

“Does that story displease you?” he asked.  “The best is yet to come.  My dear Octave, the scene I have described took place on a certain night when the moon was shining brightly.  While the two lovers were quarrelling over their fair one, and talking of cutting her throat as she sat before the fire, down in the street a certain shadow was seen to pass up and down before the house, a shadow that resembled you so closely that it was decided it must be you.”

“Who says so?” I asked, “who saw me in the street?”

“Your mistress herself; she told it to every one who cared to listen, just as cheerfully as we tell you her story.  She claims that you love her still, that you keep guard at her door, in short—­everything you can think of; but you ought to know that she talks about you publicly.”

I have never been able to lie, for whenever I have tried to disguise the truth my face has betrayed me.  ‘Amour propre’, the shame of confessing my weakness before witnesses induced me, however, to make the effort.  “It is very true that I was in the street,” I thought, “but had I known that my mistress was as bad as she is, I should not have been there.”

Finally I persuaded myself that I had not been seen distinctly; I attempted to deny it.  A deep flush suffused my face and I felt the futility of my feint.  Desgenais smiled.

“Take care,” said he, “take care, do not go too far.”

“But,” I protested, “how did I know it, how could I know—­”

Desgenais compressed his lips as if to say: 

“You knew enough.”

I stopped short, mumbling the remnant of my sentence.  My blood became so hot that I could not continue.

“I in the street bathed in tears, in despair, and during that time that encounter within!  What! that very night!  Mocked by her!  Surely, Desgenais, you are dreaming.  Is it true?  Can it be possible?  What can you know about it?”

Thus talking at haphazard, I lost my head and an irresistible feeling of wrath began to rise within me.  Finally I sat down exhausted.