“My brother embraced me most affectionately, but during our ride, he uttered not a word, so that, as I was not inclined for conversation, I had as much leisure as I could desire to reflect upon my misfortunes.

III

That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites.

Shakespeare.

“The whole affair was so involved in obscurity that I could not see my way even to a reasonable conjecture.  I was cruelly betrayed—­that was certain; but by whom?  Tiberge first occurred to me. `Tiberge!’ said I, `it is as much as thy life is worth, if my suspicions turn out to be well founded.’  However, I recollected that he could not by possibility know my abode; and therefore, he could not have furnished the information.  To accuse Manon was more than my heart was capable of.  The unusual melancholy with which she had lately seemed weighed down, her tears, the tender kiss she gave me in parting, made it all as yet a mystery to me.  I could only look upon her recent melancholy as a presentiment of our common misfortune; and while I was deploring the event which tore me from her, I was credulous enough to consider her fate as much deserving of pity as my own.

“The result of my reflections was, that I had been seen and followed in the streets of Paris by some persons of my acquaintance, who had conveyed the information to my father.  This idea comforted me.  I made up my mind to encounter some reproaches, or perhaps harsh treatment, for having outraged the paternal authority.  I resolved, however, to suffer with patience, and to promise all that might be required of me, in order to facilitate my speedy return to Paris, that I might restore life and happiness to my dear Manon.

“We soon arrived at St. Denis.  My brother, surprised at my long silence, thought it the effect of fear.  He assured me that I had nothing to apprehend from my father’s severity, provided I showed a disposition to return quietly to the path of duty, and prove myself worthy of his affection.  He made me pass the night at St. Denis, merely taking the precaution of putting the three lackeys to sleep in my room.  It cost me a pang to find myself in the same inn where I had stopped with Manon on our way from Amiens to Paris.  The innkeeper and his servants recognised me, and guessed at once the truth of my history.  I overheard them say, `Ah! that’s the handsome young gentleman who travelled this road about a month ago, with the beautiful girl he appeared so much in love with!  How pretty she was!  The poor young things, how they caressed each other!  Pity if they have been separated!’ I pretended not to hear, and kept as much out of sight as possible.

“At St. Denis my brother had a chariot waiting for us, in which we started early the next morning, and arrived at home before night.