necessary, he had said to himself, Bouret will help me. M. Hervart, who was by nature a man of the last moment and the present sensation, thought of Rose only as one thinks of a sick friend, for whose recovery one certainly hopes, but without anguish of mind. However, the fatuity inevitable in the male sex assured him that he was not forgotten; he flattered himself on having left a wound in the young girl's heart which would never altogether close, and he felt what was almost remorse. To enjoy the egoist's complete peace, he would have consented to a sacrifice; he would have allowed Rose, not forgetfulness, but melancholy resignation.
"Poor child!... But it had to happen. I hope she won't be too unhappy."
The perusal of M. Hervart's letter left Rose sad and charmed:
"Oh, how he loves me! Oh my darling Xavier, you are ill then?"
And she thought of the fiancee's cruel fate:
"He is ill, and I mayn't go and console him."
She was turning towards her father, when he rose to meet Leonor. It was in the presence of the young man and without paying heed to
