I could think of nothing but Marguerite.
As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish either with the woman or with one's scruples, if, that is, she would still be willing to see me.

But you know well, one is always slow in taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded.
It was nine o'clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who asked to what she owed this early visit.

I dared not tell her frankly what brought me.

I replied that I had gone out early in order to reserve a place in the diligence for C., where my father lived.
"You are fortunate," she said, "in being able to get away from Paris in this fine weather." I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but her face was quite serious.
"Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite ?" she continued, as seriously as before.
"No." "You are quite right." "You think so ?" "Naturally.

Since you have broken with her, why should you see her again ?" "You know it is broken off ?" "She showed me your letter." "What did she say about it ?" "She said: 'My dear Prudence, your protege is not polite; one thinks such letters, one does not write them."' "In what tone did she say that ?" "Laughingly," and she added: "He has had supper with me twice, and hasn't even called." That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy.