Next morning I rose with the dawn, and having dressed myself and stood half-an-hour, my elbow leaning on the chest of drawers, considering what means I should adopt to restore my spirits, fagged with sleeplessness¹, to their ordinary tone — for I had no intention of getting up a scene with M. Pelet, reproaching him with perfidy², sending him a challenge, or performing other gambadoes of the sort — I hit at last on the expedient³ of walking out in the cool of the morning to a neighbouring establishment of baths, and treating myself to a bracing⁴ plunge⁵. The remedy produced the desired effect. I came back at seven o’clock steadied and invigorated, and was able to greet M. Pelet, when he entered to breakfast, with an unchanged and tranquil⁶ countenance⁷; even a cordial offering of the hand and the flattering appellation⁸ of “mon fils,” pronounced in that caressing⁹ tone with which Monsieur had, of late days especially, been accustomed to address me, did not elicit¹⁰ any external sign of the feeling which, though subdued¹¹, still glowed at my heart. Not that I nursed vengeance¹² — no; but the sense of insult and treachery lived in me like a kindling

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