At this point Armand stopped.

"Would you close the window for me?" he said. "I am beginning to feel

cold. Meanwhile, I will get into bed."

I closed the window. Armand, who was still very weak, took off his

dressing-gown and lay down in bed, resting his head for a few moments

on the pillow, like a man who is tired by much talking or disturbed by

painful memories.

"Perhaps you have been talking too much," I said to him. "Would you

rather for me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me the rest of

the story another day."

"Are you tired of listening to it?"

"Quite the contrary."

"Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep."

When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and

recollect himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I did not

go to bed, but began to reflect over the day's adventure. The meeting,

the introduction, the promise of Marguerite, had followed one another so

rapidly, and so unexpectedly, that there were moments when it seemed to

me I had been dreaming. Nevertheless, it was not the first time that a

girl like Marguerite had promised herself to a man on the morrow of the

day on which he had asked for the promise.

Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression produced

on me by my future mistress was so strong that it still persisted. I

refused obstinately to see in her a woman like other women, and, with

the vanity so common to all men, I was ready to believe that she could

not but share the attraction which drew me to her.

Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I had

often heard that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to be had more

or less dear, according to the season.

But, on the other hand, how was I to reconcile this reputation with her

constant refusal of the young count whom we had found at her house? You

may say that he was unattractive to her, and that, as she was splendidly

kept by the duke, she would be more likely to choose a man who was

attractive to her, if she were to take another lover. If so, why did she

not choose Gaston, who was rich, witty, and charming, and why did she

care for me, whom she had thought so ridiculous the first time she had

seen me?

It is true that there are events of a moment which tell more than the

courtship of a year. Of those who were at the supper, I was the only one

who had been concerned at her leaving the table. I had followed her, I

had been so affected as to be unable to hide it from her, I had wept as

I kissed her hand. This circumstance, added to my daily visits during

the two months of her illness, might have shown her that I was somewhat

different from the other men she knew, and perhaps she had said to

herself that for a love which could thus manifest itself she might well

do what she had done so often that it had no more consequence for her.




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