I took Brigitte in my arms, and made her repeat a hundred times that she loved me and that she pardoned me.  I threatened to expiate my evil deeds by blowing out my brains if I ever ill-treated her again.  These periods of exaltation sometimes lasted several hours, during which time I exhausted myself in foolish expressions of love and esteem.  Then morning came; day appeared; I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and I awakened with a smile on my lips, mocking at everything, believing in nothing.

During these terrible hours, Brigitte appeared to forget that there was a man in me other than the one she saw.  When I asked her pardon she shrugged her shoulders as if to answer:  “Do you not know that I pardon you?” She would not complain as long as a spark of love remained in my heart; she assured me that all was good and sweet coming from me, insults as well as tears.

And yet as time passed my evil grew worse, my moments of malignity and irony became more sombre and intractable.  A real physical fever attended my outbursts of passion; I awakened trembling in every limb and covered with cold sweat.  Brigitte, too, although she did not complain of it, began to fail in health.  When I started to abuse her she would leave me without a word and lock herself in her room.  Thank God, I never raised my hand against her; in my most violent moments I would rather have died than touched her.

One evening the rain was driving against the windows; we were alone, the curtains were closed.

“I am in happy humor this evening,” I said to Brigitte, “and yet the horrible weather saddens me.  Let us seek some diversion in spite of the storm.”

I arose and lighted all the candles I could find.  The room was small and the illumination brilliant.  At the same time a bright fire threw out a stifling heat: 

“Come,” I said, “what shall we do while waiting for supper?”

I happened to remember that it was carnival time in Paris I seemed to see the carriages filled with masks crossing the boulevards.  I heard the shouts of the crowds before the theatres; I saw the lascivious dances, the gay costumes, the wine and the folly; all my youth bounded in my heart.

“Let us disguise ourselves,” I said to Brigitte.  “It will be for our own amusement, but what does that matter?  If you have no costumes we can make them, and pass away the time agreeably.”

We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks, and artificial flowers; Brigitte, as usual, was patient and cheerful.  We both arranged a sort of travesty; she wished to dress my hair herself; we painted and powdered ourselves freely; all that we lacked was found in an old chest that had belonged, I believe, to the aunt.  In an hour we could not recognize each other.  The evening passed in singing, in a thousand follies; toward one o’clock in the morning it was time for supper.

We had ransacked all the closets; there was one near me that remained open.  While sitting down at the table, I perceived on a shelf the book of which I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomed to write.