But let us return to that first day of our affair.When I reached home，I was wildly exhilarated.Feeling that the barriers which my imagination had erected between Marguerite and me had disappeared，and believing that she was mine，that I had a small place in her thoughts，that I had the key to her apartment in my pocket and permission to use it，I felt pleased with life and pleased with myself，and I praised God who had let it all happen.
One day，a young man walks along a street，comes across a woman，looks at her，turns and looks again，then walks on.This woman，whom he does not know，has pleasures，sorrows，loves in which he has no part.He does not exist for her，and perhaps，if he spoke to her，she would laugh at him just as Marguerite had laughed at me.Weeks，months，years pass by and then，quite unexpectedly，when both have followed their destiny in their separate ways，the logic of chance brings them face to face.The woman becomes the man's mistress and loves him truly.How？Why？Their two lives are now as one：no sooner is their affection sealed than they feel as though it has always existed，and everything that has gone before is blotted from the memory of the two lovers.It really is the oddest thing，you must admit.
For my own part，I could not recall how I had ever lived before the previous evening.My whole being cried out for joy at the memory of the words we had exchanged during that first night.Either Marguerite was skilled at deceit，or she truly felt for me one of those sudden passions which can come with the first kiss but sometimes fade as quickly as they came.
The more I thought about it，the surer I was that Marguerite could have no reason to feign a love she did not feel and，furthermore，I told myself that women have two ways of loving which may derive the one from the other：they love either with their hearts or with their senses.A woman will often take a lover merely to do the bidding of her senses and，without expecting to，acquires knowledge of the mystery of ethereal love，and henceforth lives only through her heart；a young girl，seeking in marriage simply the union of two pure affections，will often acquire the sudden revelation of physical love，the emphatic culmination of the purest impressions of the soul.
I fell asleep in the middle of my thoughts.I was woken by a letter from Marguerite which contained these words：
These are my orders：This evening at the Vaudeville.Come during the third interval.
M.G.
I put her note away in a drawer，so that I would always have reality to hand should I ever have doubts，as happened from time to time.
As she did not say that I should go and see her during the day，I dared not call on her；but so great was my desire to meet up with her before that evening that I ventured on to the Champs-Elysees where，like the previous day，I saw her drive up and then down again.
At seven，I was at the Vaudeville.
I had never arrived at a theatre quite so early.
All the boxes filled one after the other.Just one remained unoccupied：the front box in the stalls.
At the start of the third act，I heard someone opening the door to this box，on which I had kept my eyes more or less permanently fixed，and Marguerite appeared.
She immediately came and stood in the front of her box，scanned the stalls，saw me and thanked me with a glance.
She was radiantly beautiful that evening.
Was I the reason why she had taken such care to look her best？Did she love me enough to think that the more beautiful I found her，the happier I would be？I still could not be sure；but if this was her intention，then she fully succeeded.For when she appeared，there was a ripple of turning heads and even the actor who was speaking at that moment looked in the direction of the woman whose entrance had disturbed the audience.
