One duty remained to Armand--to return to his father. He wished me to
accompany him.

We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined him from
the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, kindly.

He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand
affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal sentiment was
that which dominated all others in his mind.

His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that
serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only
holy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed her
brother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of her youth,
that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own happiness at the mere
invocation of her name.

I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent care
for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart.

I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been told
me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; that is,
that it is true.

I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like
Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did--far from it; but
I have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love in the
course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she died of it. I
have told the reader all that I learned. It was my duty.