My heart is not at peace, and, what is worse for me, neither is my conscience; and yet, I think I have done my duty.

Have I understood it right or not?
Judge for yourself.
I take up my situation toward Madame de Palme where I had left it in my last letter.

The day after our mutual explanation, I took every care to maintain our relations upon the footing of good-fellowship on which they seemed established, and which constituted, in my idea, the only sort of intelligence desirable and even possible between us.

It seemed to me, on that day, that she manifested the same vivacity and the same spirit as usual; yet I fancied that her voice and her look, when she addressed me, assumed a meek gravity which is not part of her usual disposition; but on the following days, though I had not deviated from the line of conduct I had marked out for myself, it became impossible for me not to notice that Madame de Palme had lost something of her gayety, and that a vague preoccupation clouded the serenity of her brow.

I could see her dancing-partners surprised at her frequent absence of mind; she still followed the whirl, but she no longer led it.