WHEN I reached home，I began to weep like a child.There is not a man alive who has not been deceived at least once but does not know what it is to suffer so.
Weighed down by the kind of fervent resolution which we always think we shall be strong enough to keep，I told myself that I had to put an end to this affair at once，and impatiently waited for morning to come so that I could go and buy a ticket and return to my father and my sister-twin loves on which I could count and which would never let me down.
However，I did not want to go away without ensuring that Marguerite knew exactly why I was going.Only a man who is quite out of love with his mistress will leave her without writing.
I wrote and rewrote a score of letters in my head.
I had been dealing with a woman who was like all other kept women；I had poeticized her far too much.She had treated me like a school-boy and，to deceive me，had resorted to an insultingly ****** ruse-that much was clear.My pride then took over.I had to leave this woman without giving her the satisfaction of knowing how much our parting made me suffer，and this is what I wrote to her，in my most elegant hand and with tears of rage and pain in my eyes.
'My dear Marguerite，
I trust that yesterday's indisposition has not proved too troublesome.I called，at eleven last evening，to ask after you，and was told you had not yet returned.Monsieur de G was altogether more fortunate，for he arrived a few moments later and was still with you at four o'clock this morning.
Forgive me the tiresome few hours which I inflicted on you，and rest assured that I shall never forget the happy moments which I owe you.
I would certainly have called to ask after you today，but I propose to return and join my father.
Farewell，my dear Marguerite.I am neither rich enough to love you as I should wish，nor poor enough to love you as you would like.Let us both forget：you，a name which must mean very little to you，and I，happiness which has become impossible for me to bear.
I am returning your key which I have never used and which you may find will answer some useful purpose，if you are often ill the way you were yesterday.'
As you see，I did not have the strength to end my letter without a touch of supercilious irony，which only went to prove how much in love I still was.
I read and reread my letter ten times over，and the thought of the pain it would cause Marguerite calmed me a little.I tried to live up to the bold note it had struck，and when，at eight o'clock，my servant answered my summons，I handed it to him to deliver at once.
'Must I wait for an answer？'Joseph asked.（My manservant was called Joseph.All manservants are called Joseph）。
'If you are asked whether a reply is expected，you will say that you don't know，and you will wait.'
I clung to hope that she would answer.
Poor，weak creatures that we are！
The whole of the time my servant was out，I remained in a state of extreme agitation.At some moments，recalling how completely Marguerite had given herself to me，I asked myself by what right had I written her an impertinent letter when she could quite well reply that it was not Monsieur de G who was deceiving me but I who was deceiving Monsieur de G-which is an argument which allows many a woman to have more than one lover.At other moments，recalling the hussy's solemn oaths，I tried to convince myself that my letter had been far too mild and that there were no words strong enough to scourge a woman who could laugh at love as sincere as mine.Then again，I told myself that it would have been better not to write at all，but to have called on her during the day：in this way，I would have been there to enjoy the tears I made her weep.
In the end，I came round to wondering what she would say in her answer，and I was already prepared to believe whatever excuse she gave me.
Joseph returned.
'Well？'I said.
'Sir，'he answered，'Madame had not risen and was still asleep，but the moment she rings，the letter will be given to her and if there is a reply，it will be brought.'
Asleep！
A score of times I was on the point of sending round to get the letter back，but I persisted in telling myself：
'Perhaps someone has already given it to her，in which case I would look as though I was sorry I'd sent it.'
The nearer it got to the time when it seemed most likely that she would give me an answer，the more I regretted having written.
Ten o'clock，eleven o'clock，midday stuck.
At noon，I was on the point of setting off for our rendezvous，as though nothing had happened.I was a complete loss for a way of a way of breaking out of iron ring that held me fast.
Then，with the superstition of those who wait，I thought that if I went out for a while，I should find an answer when I got back.Replies which we await with impatience always come when we are not at home.
I went out，ostensibly to lunch.
Instead of lunching at the Cafe Foy，on the corner of the Boulevard，as was my custom，I thought I would have lunch in the Palais-Royal and go via the rue d'Antin.Every time I saw a woman in the distance，I thought it was Nanine bringing me a reply.I walked the length of the rue d'Antin without coming across any sort of messenger.I arrived at the Palais-Royal and went into Very's.The waiter gave me something to eat，or，more accurately，served me whatever he wished，for I ate nothing.
Despite myself，my eyes remained fixed on the clock.
I returned home，convinced that I would find a letter from Marguerite.
The porter had received nothing for me.I still had hopes of my servant.He had seen no one since the time I went out.
If Marguerite was going to give me an answer，she would have done so long before.
