"It does not amuse me at all, madame; and it is no pleasantry. I swear it is not. On the contrary, I am speaking very seriously, as a friend, so that you may no longer be deceived by my falseness, or I be your dupe."
"Dupe? dupe of my falseness?"
"Yes."
"My falseness! my dupe! What strange language from you! And why should you be my dupe? What does it mean? It is inexplicable. And why should you say such things to me? Mon Dieu!"
"You know why I say such things better than I do. It is because I am not the first one of your lovers to whom you have proposed this entertaining suburban pastorale."
Marguerite clasped her hands and let them fall on her knees. She stared at me with wide-open eyes, that were full of sorrow and amazement. But I was quite determined to go on, though my heart was beating wildly, and the souvenir of my last meeting with Hélène flashed through my mind like a scorching tongue of flame.
"You see, my dear friend, amid the distractions of society, one can find time to play the lover, and have the good sense to ignore all former occupants in the beloved one's affections; for why should we worry about the past? Does it belong to us? We have the future, and the devil knows what it has in reserve for us.
"As for filling in any reputable way the part of the 'lover without ancestry,' in that mystery play of yours, with you and your femme de chambre as spectators, performing as others have done this rôle of lover in your play, 'Love in a Cottage,' one must be a better comedian than I am. Really, my dear Marguerite, I fear I should not act as well as my predecessors, and I wish to retain the good opinion you have always had of me."
"Ah, good God, am I dreaming? It is a frightful dream, and it has made me ill," said she, placing her trembling hands on her head.
My heart was beating as though it would break. I was partly conscious of the terrible distress I was causing this sweet woman, as with crushing irony and coarse insolence I destroyed the beautiful picture her love had painted. I shuddered to think of how she must suffer, if this really was her first affection since her husband's death. But my furious distrust worked itself to a higher and higher pitch, at the remembrance of all the odious stories I had heard told of Marguerite, and by my fear of being cheated, being taken for a dupe; so I stifled these gleams of reason, and found no words too strong to express my scorn of what I called the outrageous duplicity of this woman.