“Was I not right,” she asked, “if it was my crown, to take it from the wall where it has hung so long?

“Of what use are these remains?  Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor the flowers that baptized her.”  She went out.  I heard her sobs, and the door closed on me; I fell on my knees and wept bitterly.  When I returned to her room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was ready.  I took my place in silence, and not a word was said of what was in our hearts.

CHAPTER V

A TORTURED SOUL

It was Mercanson who had repeated in the village and in the chateau my conversation with him about Dalens and the suspicions that, in spite of myself, I had allowed him clearly to see.  Every one knows how bad news travels in the provinces, flying from mouth to mouth and growing as it flies; that is what had happened in this case.

Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in a new position.  However feebly she may have tried to flee, she had nevertheless made the attempt.  It was on account of my prayers that she remained; there was an obligation implied.  I was under oath not to grieve her either by my jealousy or my levity; every thoughtless or mocking word that escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance from her was a reproach acknowledged and merited.

Her simple good-nature gave a charm even to solitude; she could see me now at all hours without resorting to any precaution.  Perhaps she consented to this arrangement in order to prove to me that she valued her love more highly than her reputation; she seemed to regret having shown that she cared for the representations of malice.  At any rate, instead of making any attempt to disarm criticism or thwart curiosity, we lived the freest kind of life, more regardless of public opinion than ever.

For some time I kept my word, and not a cloud troubled our life.  These were happy days, but it is not of these that I would speak.

It was said everywhere about the country that Brigitte was living publicly with a libertine from Paris; that her lover ill-treated her, that they spent their time quarrelling, and that she would come to a bad end.  As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so they blamed her now.  There was nothing in her past life, even, that was not picked to pieces and misrepresented.  Her lonely tramps over the mountains, when engaged in works of charity, suddenly became the subject of quibbles and of raillery.  They spoke of her as of a woman who had lost all human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortunes she was drawing down on her head.

I had told Brigitte that it was best to let them talk and pay no attention to them; but the truth is, it became insupportable to me.  I sometimes tried to catch a word that could be construed as an insult and to demand an explanation.  I listened to whispered conversations in a salon where I was visiting, but could hear nothing; in order to do us better justice they waited until I had gone.  I returned to Brigitte and told her that all these stories were mere nonsense; that it was foolish to notice them; that they could talk about us as much as they pleased and we would care nothing about it.