The most dreadful part of my predicament was that logic put me in the wrong.Indeed，all the indications were that Marguerite loved me.In the first place，there was her scheme for spending a whole summer alone with me in the country.Then there was the plain fact that there was nothing that obliged her to be my mistress，for the money I had was insufficient for her needs or even her whims.So there was nothing more to it，on her part，than the hope of finding sincere affection through me which would be a relief from the mercenary loves which beset her life.And now，on the second day，I was in the process of blighting that hope and repaying with high-handed irony the two nights of love which I had accepted！What I was doing was therefore worse than ridiculous：it was dishonest.Had I simply paid the woman back in order to have the right to pass judgment on her way of life？And did not withdrawing on the second day make me look like some parasite of love who is afraid he is about to be presented with the bill for his dinner？It was extraordinary！I had known Marguerite for thirty-six hours，I had been her lover for twenty-four of them，and was acting like some easily injured party.Far from being only too delighted that she should divide her affections to include me，I wanted to have her all to myself，I wanted to force her，at a stroke，to put an end to the affairs of her past which，of course，represented the income of her future.What cause had I to reproach her？None.She had written to tell me she was unwell when she could easily have said bluntly，with the appalling frankness of some women，that she was expecting a lover；and instead of going along with her letter，instead of taking a walk in any street in Paris except the rue d'Antin，instead of spending the evening with my friends and presenting myself the next day at the time she had indicated，I was behaving like Othello，spying on her，thinking I was punishing her by not seeing her any more.But quite the reverse：she was probably delighted by this separation and must have thought me supremely inane.Her silence was nothing so grand as rancour：it was contempt.
At this point，I should have given Marguerite some present or other which would have left her in no doubt about my liberality and also allowed me，because I had treated her like any other kept woman，to believe that I had no further obligations towards her.But I felt that with the least hint of trade，I should degrade，if not the love she had for me，then at least the love I had for her；and since this love of mine was so pure that it refused to be shared with others，it was incapable of offering a present，however fine，as payment in full for the happiness，however brief，I had been given.
This is what I kept telling myself over and over that night.I was ready at any moment to go and say it all to Marguerite.
When morning came，I was still awake and feverish.I could not think of anything but Marguerite.
As you will appreciate，I had to decide one way or the other：to have done either with the woman or my scruples-always assuming，of course，that she would still agree to go on seeing me.
But，as you know，one always puts off taking crucial decisions：as a result，neither able to stay in my rooms nor daring to wait upon Marguerite，I embarked on a course of action that might lead to a reconciliation which，should it succeed，my pride could always blame on chance.
It was nine o'clock.I hurried round to Prudence's.She asked me to what she owed this early call.
I did not dare say openly what brought me.I replied that I had gone out early to book a seat on the coach for C，where my father lived.
'You are very lucky，'she said，'to be able to get out of Paris in such marvellous weather.'
I looked hard at Prudence，wondering whether she was laughing at me.
But her face was serious.
'Are you going to say goodbye to Marguerite？'she went on，with the same seriousness.
'No.'
'Very wise.'
'You think so？'
'Of course.Since you've finished with her，what's the point of seeing her again？'
'So you know it's all over？'
'She showed me your letter.'
'And what did she say？'
'She said：'My dear Prudence，your protege has no manners.People compose letters like this in their heads，but no one actually writes them down.''
'And how did she say it？'
'She was laughing.And she also said：'He came to supper twice and now won't even make his party call.''
So this was all the effect my letter and jealous torments had produced！I was cruelly humiliated in my pride of love.
'And what did she do yesterday evening？'
'She went to the Opera.'
'I know.But afterwards？'
'She had supper at home.'
'Alone？'
'With Count de G，I believe.'
So the break I had made had altered nothing in Marguerite's habits.
It is because of moments like this that some people will tell you：
'You shouldn't have given the woman another moment's thought.She clearly didn't love you.'
'Ah well，I'm very pleased to see that Marguerite isn't pining for me，'I went on，with a forced smile.
'And she's absolutely right.You did what you had to.You've been much more sensible than her，for she really loved you.All she did was talk about you，and she might have ended up doing something silly.'
'If she loves me，why didn't she reply？'
'Because she realized that she was wrong to love you.And besides，women will sometimes allow a man to take advantage of their love but not to injure their pride，and a man always injures a woman's pride when two days after becoming her lover，he leaves her，whatever reason he gives for doing so.I know Marguerite；she'd sooner die than give you an answer.'
'What should I do，then？'
'Nothing.She will forget you，you will forget her and neither of you will have anything to reproach each other for.'
'What if I wrote asking her to forgive me？'
'Don't.She would.'
I nearly flung my arms around Prudence.
A quarter of an hour later，I was back in my rooms and writing to Marguerite.
Someone who repents of a letter which he wrote yesterday，someone who will go away tomorrow if you do not forgive him，wishes to know at what time be may call and lay his repentance at your feet.
When will be find you alone？For，as you know，confessions should always be made without witnesses.'
I folded this kind of madrigal in prose and sent Joseph with it.He handed it to Marguerite herself，and she told him that she would reply later.
I went out only for a moment，to dine，and at eleven in the evening still had no reply.
I resolved that I should suffer no more and leave the next day.
Having made up my mind，knowing that I would not sleep if I went to bed，I began to pack my trunks.
