When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said about
her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, good as she
was, would be able to make me forget my mistress.
Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a distraction
for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and neighbours. I went
without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with that sort of apathy into
which I had sunk since my departure.
We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put down my
unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the clouds pass. I
let my thought wander over the solitary plains, and from time to time I
heard some one call to me and point to a hare not ten paces off. None of
these details escaped my father, and he was not deceived by my exterior
calm. He was well aware that, broken as I now was, I should some day
experience a terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without
seeming to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract
my thoughts.
My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she could
not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so lighthearted,
had suddenly become so sad and dreamy.
Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father's anxious
scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to forgive me for
the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving him.
Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure it no
longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I had loved,
I still loved this woman so much that I could not suddenly become
indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. Above all, whatever I
felt for her, I had to see her again, and at once. This desire possessed
my mind, and with all the violence of a will which had begun to reassert
itself in a body so long inert.
It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I had to
see her the very next day after the day when the thought had occurred to
me; and I went to my father and told him that I had been called to Paris
on business, but that I should return promptly. No doubt he guessed the
reason of my departure, for he insisted that I should stay, but, seeing
that if I did not carry out my intention the consequences, in the state
in which I was, might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost,
with tears, to return without delay.