But despite all this, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could not get rid of strange thoughts that came to my mind.  The tears I had seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as Brigitte’s, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered between them, troubled and disquieted me.  Not over a month ago I would have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect Brigitte?  Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going away with me?  Even were it possible that Smith could share some secret of which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of the mystery?  What was there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship?

She had known him as a child; she met him again after long years just as she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding to her sorrow.  Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and regrets?  Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long journey, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions?  I felt this that must be the explanation, and that it was my duty to assure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered.  And yet a deadly chill oppressed me, and I could not determine what course to pursue.

When Smith left us in the evening, we either were silent or talked of him.  I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him continually.  She, however, told me just what I have told my reader; Smith’s life had never been other than it was now—­poor, obscure, and honest.  I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times, without knowing why I took such an interest in it.

There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not confess.  If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least attention to it?  Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not—­had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I was happy?  But while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte’s sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do with her present state.  If I had been what I ought to have been for the last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was persuaded, could have troubled our love.

Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted; his simple and modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eye seizes at the first glance; one could know him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired confidence if not admiration.  I could not help thinking that if he were Brigitte’s lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the ends of the earth.