"Those letters? Those letters?"
"Now you are joking again. As to this trial you have seen fit to submit me to, I forgive you for it, for what woman could ever have a particle of confidence, esteem, or affection for a man who was capable of such a treacherous act? Would she not be certain that at some future day her own letters—?"
"Certainly; she might fear the same fate for her letters if she were ever fool enough to write any," said Madame de V——, with a self-possession that astounded me.
Before the end of our interview I discovered that I could not hope to win any favour from Madame de V—— except on these treasonable conditions.
This calculation on her part was doubly odious to me, because it wounded my vanity. It proved that Madame de V——'s desire to be revenged on Madame de Pënâfiel (for which she had never given any reason) was stronger than any passing affection she ever had for me.
I left Madame de V—— a very much disappointed man. I had counted on an interview which, if not more decisive, would have at least been more tender. Madame de V——'s reputation for levity was such that I had expected an unconditional surrender, whereas the conditions she exacted were as exorbitant as they were inadmissible.
It is strange, though, that, as yesterday when contemplating this infidelity to Marguerite, my love for her was stronger than ever, so now, after being checked in my miserable attempt to betray her, my affection seems to be on the wane. It is only ephemeral, this change in me. I exaggerate, perhaps, but it is the truth. As I think of the evening I am about to spend with her, I feel that I would be much more amiable, much more affectionate, if I had something to reproach myself with and to hide from her. I feel that I acted honourably in refusing what Madame de V—— hoped for, but my conscience is not satisfied with that much, for I really love Marguerite much better than her enemy, and so I have sacrificed nothing. Still, I can not help feeling violently angry with Marguerite for having caused Madame de V—— to hate her so, for if this hatred had not existed, I should have been able to enjoy this short-lived passion, which I feel sure would have been charmingly piquant.
Nothing could be more unjust, more selfish, or more ridiculous than the irritation I feel towards Marguerite for having deprived me of a pleasure which might have been a serious menace to her happiness.
I admit these are base sentiments, but this is how I feel, and it is in such a state of mind that I am about to go to Marguerite. How will it end? I know not, but I am filled with sad forebodings.