I willingly retired to my bed and called for a glass of
water, which I quickly swallowed with relish.
But I was soon attacked by fever. It was then I began to shed tears. I
could understand that my mistress had ceased to love me, but not that she
could deceive me. I could not comprehend why a woman who was forced to it
by neither duty nor interest could lie to one man when she loved another.
Twenty times a day I asked my friend Desgenais how that could be
possible.
"If I were her husband," I said, "or if I supported her I could easily
understand how she might be tempted to deceive me; but if she no longer
loves me, why deceive me?"
I did not understand how any one could lie for love; I was but a child
then, but I confess that I do not understand it yet. Every time I have
loved a woman I have told her of it, and when I ceased to love her I
confessed it to her with the same sincerity, having always thought that
in matters of this kind the will was not concerned and that there was no
crime but falsehood.
To all this Desgenais replied:
"She is unworthy; promise me that you will never see her again."
I solemnly promised. He advised me, moreover, not to write to her, not
even to reproach her, and if she wrote to me not to reply. I promised all
that with some surprise that he should consider it necessary to exact
such a promise.
Nevertheless the first thing I did when I was able to leave my room was
to visit my mistress.
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