L'Abbé Prévost

“ It seemed to me so impossible that Manon could have been unfaithful to me, that I feared to wrong her even by a suspicion. I adored her—that was certain; I had given her no greater proofs of my love than I had received of hers; why, then, should I accuse her of being less sincere and constant than myself? What reason could she have had for deceiving me? But three hours ago she had lavished her tenderest caresses upon me, and had welcomed mine with rapturous delight. I knew my own heart no better than I knew hers. "No! No!" I said again; "Manon cannot be false; it is impossible! ”

“ I cried, "you are weeping, dearest Manon—yes, weeping! and yet you have not confided to me one word of the grief which thus moves you to tears!"
Her only answer was a sigh, which added to my distress. I arose from my seat, trembling with emotion, and besought her, with all the vehemence of love, to tell me why she wept. Tears coursed each other down my own cheeks as I wiped away those that fell from her eyes. I was more dead than alive, and in an agony of grief and anxiety which it would have touched the heart of a barbarian to behold. ”

“ On the other hand, I considered that she had scarcely been out of my sight since we had come to Paris. In all our occupations, our walks, and our amusements, we were invariably together. Great Heavens! a moment's separation would have been an intolerable affliction for us. It had become a necessity of our lives to be constantly interchanging assurances of our mutual love; to forego that sweet privilege would have been torture to us. I could thus conceive of scarcely a moment during which any one but myself could have been in Manon's thoughts. ”