her to enlighten me; for such power I would have given all I possessed.  What could I do or say?  She sat there calm and unruffled, looking at me with sadness.  I heard the sound of the horses’ hoofs on the paving as the carriage drew out of the court.  I had merely to turn my hand to call them back, but it seemed to me that there was something irrevocable about their departure.  I slipped the bolt on the door; something whispered in my ear:  “You are face to face with the woman who must give you life or death.”

While thus buried in thought I tried to invent some expedient that would lead to the truth.  I recalled one of Diderot’s romances in which a woman, jealous of her lover, resorted to a novel plan, for the purpose of clearing away her doubts.  She told him that she no longer loved him and that she wished to leave him.  The Marquis des Arcis (the name of the lover) falls into the trap, and confesses that he himself has tired of the liaison.  That piece of strategy, which I had read at too early an age, had struck me as being very skilful, and the recollection of it at this moment made me smile.  “Who knows?” said I to myself.  “If I should try this with Brigitte, she might be deceived and tell me her secret.”

My anger had become furious when the idea of resorting to such trickery occurred to me.  Was it so difficult to make a woman speak in spite of herself?  This woman was my mistress; I must be very weak if I could not gain my point.  I turned over on the sofa with an air of indifference.

“Very well, my dear,” said I, gayly, “this is not a time for confidences, then?”

She looked at me in astonishment.

“And yet,” I continued, “we must some day come to the truth.  Now I believe it would be well to begin at once; that will make you confiding, and there is nothing like an understanding between friends.”

Doubtless my face betrayed me as I spoke these words; Brigitte did not appear to understand and kept on walking up and down.

“Do you know,” I resumed, “that we have been together now six months?  The life we are leading together is not one to be laughed at.  You are young, I also; if this kind of life should become distasteful to you, are you the woman to tell me of it?  In truth, if it were so, I would confess it to you frankly.  And why not?  Is it a crime to love?  If not, it is not a crime to love less or to cease to love at all.  Would it be astonishing if at our age we should feel the need of change?”

She stopped me.

“At our age!” said she.  “Are you addressing me?  What comedy are you now playing, yourself?”

Blood mounted to my face.  I seized her hand.  “Sit down here,” I said, “and listen to me.”

“What is the use?  It is not you who speak.”

I felt ashamed of my own strategy and abandoned it.

“Listen to me,” I repeated, “and come, I beg of you, sit down near me.  If you wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have to say.”