the limits of good-breeding, often seemed to me to assume an almost
hostile tinge. Monsieur de Mauterne is a man of my age, tall, blonde, with
a figure more robust than elegant, and features regularly handsome, but
stiff and without expression. He possesses social accomplishments, much
audacity, and no wit. His bearing and his conduct during the course of
that fatal ride would have informed me from the start, if I had only
thought of observing them, that he believed he had the right of fearing
henceforth no rivalry near Madame de Palme. He assumed frankly the leading
part in all the scenes in which she participated; he overwhelmed her with
attentions, affected to speak to her in a whisper, and neglected nothing,
in a word, to initiate the public into the secret of his success. In that
respect, he lost his trouble; the world, after exhausting its wickedness
upon imaginary errors, seems thus far to refuse the evidence which vainly
stares it in the face.

As to myself, my friend, it would be difficult to depict the chaos of
emotions and thoughts that tossed and tumbled in my brain. The feeling
that swayed me perhaps with the greatest violence, was that of hatred
against that man--a feeling of implacable hatred, of eternal hatred. I
was, however, more shocked and more distressed than surprised at the
choice that had been made of him; he had happened in the way, and he had
been taken up with a sort of indifference and of scorn, as one picks up
any weapon to commit suicide with, when once the suicide has been resolved
upon. As to my feelings toward her, you may guess them; not a shadow of
anger, frightful sadness, tender compassion, vague remorse, and above all,
passionate, furious regret. I realized at last how much I had loved her! I
could scarcely understand the motives which, two days before, had appeared
to me so powerful, so imperative, and which had seemed to raise between
her and me an insurmountable barrier. All these obstacles of the past
disappeared before the abyss of the present which seemed the only real