“Why that question?” asked Brigitte; “have I said that I had changed my mind?  I am suffering, and can not travel in my present condition, but when I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned.”

We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she had expressed her resolution saddened me more than usual.  It was not the first time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up to this time whatever letters Brigitte had received she had never taken them so much to heart.  How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte had been so affected by protests which in less happy moments had had no effect on her?  Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils from an act of final significance?  “I will do as you please,” she had said.  No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than look at that sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks I will set out alone.

Fool that I was!  Had I the strength to do it?  I did not close my eyes that night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man I had seen at the opera.  I do not know whether it was wrath or curiosity that impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired to learn of him; but I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, and that was all I desired.

As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that I felt under an obligation to call on him after all the visits he had made us; I had not said a word about my experience at the opera.  Brigitte’s eyes betrayed signs of tears.  When I entered her room she held out her hand and said: 

“What do you wish?”

Her voice was sad but tender.  We exchanged a few kind words, and I set out less unhappy.

The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was living near us.  When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation of uneasiness; I was dazed as though by a sudden flash of light.  His first gesture froze my blood.  He was in bed, and with the same accent Brigitte had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held out his hand and said: 

“What do you wish?”

Say what you please, there are things in a man’s life which reason can not explain.  I sat as still as if awakened from a dream, and began to repeat his questions.  Why, in fact, had I come to see him?  How could I tell him what had brought me there?  Even if he had anything to tell me, how did I know he would speak?  He had brought letters from N------, and knew those who had written them.  But it cost me an effort to question him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind.  Our first words were polite and insignificant.  I thanked him for his kindness in bringing letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving France we would ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent, surprised to find ourselves vis-a-vis.

I looked about me in embarrassment.  His room was on the fourth floor; everything indicated honest and industrious poverty.  Some books, musical instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.