CHAPTER XIII.
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 sleeplessness, to their ordinary tone--for I had no intention of getting up a scene with M.Pelet, reproaching him with perfidy, sending him a challenge, or performing other gambadoes of the sort--I hit at last on the expedient of walking out in the cool of the morning to a neighbouring establishment of baths, and treating myself to a bracing plunge.
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 tranquil countenance; even a cordial offering of the hand and the flattering appellation of "mon fils," pronounced in that caressing tone with which Monsieur had, of late days especially, been accustomed to address me, did not elicit any external sign of the feeling which, though subdued, still glowed at my heart.

Not that I nursed vengeance--no; but the sense of insult and treachery lived in me like a kindling, though as yet smothered coal.

God knows I am not by nature vindictive; I would not hurt a man because I can no longer trust or like him; but neither my reason nor feelings are of the vacillating order--they are not of that sand-like sort where impressions, if soon made, are as soon effaced.

Once convinced that my friend's disposition is incompatible with my own, once assured that he is indelibly stained with certain defects obnoxious to my principles, and I dissolve the connection.