given it to him wished to see me.

I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand
Duval.

I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the
first leaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person
who had given the book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to
ask him in at once.

I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling
suit which looked as if he had not changed it for some days, and
had not even taken the trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris,
for it was covered with dust.

M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his
agitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling
voice that he said to me:

"Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young
people are not very ceremonious with one another, and I was so
anxious to see you to-day that I have not even gone to the hotel
to which I have sent my luggage, and have rushed straight here,
fearing that, after all, I might miss you, early as it is."

I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking
his handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a
moment.

"You must be at a loss to understand," he went on, sighing sadly,