He blamed himself mercilessly for
thinking so little of the brocade bag which I had given him at parting,
for letting all remembrance of my words concerning it be put out of his
mind by his "wicked jealousy," as he repentantly called it. For me, he
had nothing but praise and gratitude for what I had done for him. He
begged me to forgive him, and his remorse for such a small thing,
comparatively--wrung my heart.
We searched the garden and the whole street, then came back to search
the little drawing-room for the second time, in vain. It did seem that
there was witchcraft in it, as I said to Raoul; but at last I persuaded
him to go away, and follow his own track wherever he had been since I
gave him the bag with the diamonds. It was just possible, as it was so
late, and his way had led him through quiet streets, that even after all
this time the little brocade bag might be lying where he had left it--or
that some honest policeman on his beat might have picked it up. Besides,
there was the cab in which he had come part of the distance to my house.
The bag might have fallen on the floor while he drove: and there were
many honest cabmen in Paris, I reminded him, trying to be as cheerful as
I could.
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