I then paid her the most extravagant compliments; her senseless chatting I described as unrestraint tempered by finesse, her pretentious exaggerations as a natural desire to please; was it her fault that she was poor?  At least she thought of nothing but pleasure and confessed it freely; she did not preach sermons herself, nor did she listen to them from others; I went so far as to tell Brigitte that she ought to adopt her as a model, and that she was just the kind of woman to please me.

Poor Madame Daniel discovered signs of melancholy in Brigitte’s eyes.  She was a strange creature, as good and sincere—­when you could get finery out of her head—­as she was stupid when absorbed in such frivolous affairs.  On occasion she could be both good and stupid.  One fine day, when they were walking together, she threw herself into Brigitte’s arms, and told her that she had noticed I was beginning to pay court to her, and that I had made certain proposals to her, the meaning of which was not doubtful; but she knew that I was another’s lover, and as for her, whatever might happen, she would die rather than destroy the happiness of a friend.  Brigitte thanked her, and Madame Daniel, having set her conscience at ease, considered it no sin to render me desolate by languishing glances.

In the evening, when she had gone, Brigitte, in a severe tone, told me what had happened; she begged me to spare her such affronts in the future.

“Not that I attach any importance to such pleasantries,” she said, “but if you have any love for me, it seems to me it is useless to inform a third party that there are times when you have not.”

“Is it possible,” I replied with a smile, “that it is important?  You see very well that I was only joking, and that I did it only to pass away the time.”

“Ah! my friend, my friend,” said Brigitte, “it is a pity that you must seek pastimes.”

A few days later I proposed that we go to the prefecture to see Madame Daniel dance; she unwillingly consented.  While she was arranging her toilette, I sat near the window and reproached her for losing her former cheerfulness.

“What is the matter with you?” I asked. (I knew as well as she.) “Why that morose air that never leaves you?  In truth, you make our life quite sad.  I have known you when you were more joyous, more free and more open; I am not flattered by the thought that I am responsible for the change.  But you have a cloistral disposition; you were born to live in a convent.”

It was Sunday; as we were driving down the road Brigitte ordered the carriage to stop in order to say good-evening to some friends, fresh and vigorous country girls, who were going to dance at Tilleuls.  When they had gone on, Brigitte followed them with, longing eyes; her little rustic dance was very dear to her; she dried her eyes with her handkerchief.

We found Madame Daniel at the prefecture in high feather.  I danced with her so often that it excited comment; I paid her a thousand compliments and she replied as best she could.