Long years have passed since then, and now that I review my past conduct, I have the consolation of knowing that it was not to avoid the fulfilment of my duty that I forced myself into this blind faith in evil; for I knew that the stories in circulation had an appearance of truth to the eyes of the world, though they were utterly false in every respect. I knew that I owed it to Hélène to make the reparation my first impulse had shown me was the right one. She was my relative, she had been like a daughter to my father. I knew her excellent qualities, and I had been convinced that I would become the happiest man in the world, should I become her husband.
But my conduct towards her was not dictated by one of those sordid instincts which we are ashamed to admit but whose tool we allow ourselves to become. Later in life I should not have been able to deliberately deceive myself, but then I was so young, so confident in my incredulity, and I remember perfectly that what caused me the most smarting mortification was not the fact that I had been duped, but the unspeakable regret that I had not been able to inspire Hélène with a real affection.
At last I arrived at the pavilion. When I entered I found Hélène waiting for me seated near the door; she was wrapped in a black cloak, and trembling with cold. When she saw me she rose, and, holding out her hands to me, said, in a tone of the deepest sadness: "Ah, you have come at last! How much we have suffered these last two days!"
Then, no doubt struck by the stern and unkind expression of my features, she added, "Good God! What is the matter, Arthur? You frighten me."
Thereupon, with that mocking and silly cruelty fit for children, or happy, selfish people, who have never suffered, I put on a gay and careless manner, and, kissing her hand, replied: "What, I frighten you! That is not the effect I hoped to have on you in such a charming rendezvous!"
The ironical way in which I uttered these words was so different from my habitual way of addressing Hélène that she opened her great eyes in astonishment, knowing not what I meant. Then, after a moment of silence, she added, "Arthur, my mother has told me all."
"Ah, indeed!" I answered, with indifference. Then, closing the collar of her mantle, I added: "Take care, the fog is very damp and penetrating; you might catch cold."
The poor child thought she must be dreaming.
"What!" said she, joining her hands in stupefaction, "you don't see that it is all horrible, infamous?"
"What does it all matter, since it is all a lie?" I answered, without changing countenance.