When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For
a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed
before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myself
a little. I looked about me, and was astonished to see the life of
others continue without pausing at my distress.
I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered that
my father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes,
and that, whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it.
I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the
key in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was reading. He
showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was
expecting me. I flung myself into his arms without saying a word. I gave
him Marguerite's letter, and, falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept
hot tears.