Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself from the instantaneous remorse of this infamous action.
I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we were alone she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very type of the shameless, heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at least, for perhaps some men might have dreamed of her as I dreamed of Marguerite. She asked me for money. I gave it to her, and, free then to go, I returned home.
Marguerite had not answered.
I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next day. At half past nine a messenger brought me an envelope containing my letter and the five-hundred-franc note, not a word more.
“Who gave you this?” I asked the man.
“A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for Boulogne, and who told me not to take it until the coach was out of the courtyard.”
I rushed to the Rue d’Antin.
“Madame left for England at six o’clock,” said the porter.
There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate nor love. I was exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my friends was setting out on a tour in the East. I told my father I should like to accompany him; my father gave me drafts and letters of introduction, and eight or ten days afterward I embarked at Marseilles.
It was at Alexandria that I learned from an attaché at the embassy, whom I had sometimes seen at Marguerite’s, that the poor girl was seriously ill.