"Perhaps you have been talking too much," I said to him. "Would
you rather for me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me
the rest of the story another day."

"Are you tired of listening to it?"

"Quite the contrary."

"Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep."

When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and
recollect himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I
did not go to bed, but began to reflect over the day's adventure.
The meeting, the introduction, the promise of Marguerite, had
followed one another so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, that there
were moments when it seemed to me I had been dreaming.
Nevertheless, it was not the first time that a girl like
Marguerite had promised herself to a man on the morrow of the day
on which he had asked for the promise.

Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression
produced on me by my future mistress was so strong that it still
persisted. I refused obstinately to see in her a woman like other
women, and, with the vanity so common to all men, I was ready to
believe that she could not but share the attraction which drew me
to her.

Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I
had often heard that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to
be had more or less dear, according to the season.