Early this morning, I requested a private interview with Madame de
Malouet. It appeared to me that my entire confidence was due to her. She
heard me with profound sadness, but without manifesting any surprise.

"I had guessed," she told me, "something of the kind--I did not sleep all
night. I believe that you have done your duty as a wise man and as an
honest man. Yes, you have. Still, it seems very hard. Society life is
detestable in this, that it creates fictitious characters and passions,
unexpected situations, subtle shades, which complicate strangely the
practice of duty, and obscure the straight path which ought to be always
simple and easy to discover. And now you wish to leave, I suppose?"

"Certainly, madam."

"Very well; but you had better stay two or three days longer. You will
thus remove from your departure the semblance of flight which, after what
may have been observed, might prove somewhat ridiculous and perhaps
damaging. It is a sacrifice I ask of you. To-day, we are all to dine at
Madame de Breuilly's; I'll undertake to excuse you. In this manner, this
day at least will rest lightly upon you. To-morrow, we'll act for the
best. Day after to-morrow, you can leave."

I accepted these terms. I shall soon see you again, then, Paul. But in the
meantime, how lonely and forsaken I feel! How I long to grasp your firm
and loyal hand; to hear your voice tell me: "You have done right!"