Of those who were at the supper, I was the only one who had been concerned at her leaving the table.

I had followed her, I had been so affected as to be unable to hide it from her, I had wept as I kissed her hand.

This circumstance, added to my daily visits during the two months of her illness, might have shown her that I was somewhat different from the other men she knew, and perhaps she had said to herself that for a love which could thus manifest itself she might well do what she had done so often that it had no more consequence for her.
All these suppositions, as you may see, were improbable enough; but whatever might have been the reason of her consent, one thing was certain, she had consented.
Now, I was in love with Marguerite.

I had nothing more to ask of her.
Nevertheless, though she was only a kept woman, I had so anticipated for myself, perhaps to poetize it a little, a hopeless love, that the nearer the moment approached when I should have nothing more to hope, the more I doubted.

I did not close my eyes all night.
I scarcely knew myself.