"At last you have come," she said, throwing her arms round my neck. "But
how pale you are!"

I told her of the scene with my father.

"My God! I was afraid of it," she said. "When Joseph came to tell you
of your father's arrival I trembled as if he had brought news of some
misfortune. My poor friend, I am the cause of all your distress. You
will be better off, perhaps, if you leave me and do not quarrel
with your father on my account. He knows that you are sure to have a
mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it is I, since I love you and
do not want more of you than your position allows. Did you tell him how
we had arranged our future?"

"Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we really
love one another."

"What are we to do, then?"

"Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over."

"Will it pass?"

"It will have to."

"But your father will not stop there."

"What do you suppose he can do?"

"How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son obey
him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do me the
honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give me up."