if, when he had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite's
death had not exaggerated his former love, and consequently his
sorrow, and I said to myself that perhaps he had already
forgotten the dead woman, and along with her his promise to come
and see me again. This supposition would have seemed probable
enough in most instances, but in Armand's despair there had been
an accent of real sincerity, and, going from one extreme to
another, I imagined that distress had brought on an illness, and
that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was ill,
perhaps dead.

I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps
there was some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at
some pathetic love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire
to know all about it had much to do with the anxiety which
Armand's silence caused me. Since M. Duval did not return to see
me, I decided to go and see him. A pretext was not difficult to
find; unluckily I did not know his address, and no one among
those whom I questioned could give it to me.

I went to the Rue d'Antin; perhaps Marguerite's porter would know
where Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little
about it as I. I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had
been buried. It was the Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month
of April; the weather was fine, the graves were not likely to
look as sad and desolate as they do in winter; in short, it was
warm enough for the living to think a little of the dead, and pay
them a visit. I went to the cemetery, saying to myself: "One
glance at Marguerite's grave, and I shall know if Armand's sorrow
still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of him."