I took Marguerite’s hand. It was burning, and the poor woman shivered under her fur cloak.
I rolled the arm-chair in which she was sitting up to the fire.
“Do you think, then, that I did not suffer,” said I, “on that night when, after waiting for you in the country, I came to look for you in Paris, and found nothing but the letter which nearly drove me mad? How could you have deceived me, Marguerite, when I loved you so much?
“Do not speak of that, Armand; I did not come to speak of that. I wanted to see you only not an enemy, and I wanted to take your hand once more. You have a mistress; she is young, pretty, you love her they say. Be happy with her and forget me.”
“And you. You are happy, no doubt?”
“Have I the face of a happy woman, Armand? Do not mock my sorrow, you, who know better than anyone what its cause and its depth are.”
“It only depended on you not to have been unhappy at all, if you are as you say.”
“No, my friend; circumstances were stronger than my will. I obeyed, not the instincts of a light woman, as you seem to say, but a serious necessity, and reasons which you will know one day, and which will make you forgive me.”
“Why do you not tell me those reasons to-day?”
“Because they would not bring about an impossible reunion between us, and they would separate you perhaps from those from whom you must not be separated.”