of their time to music.  He punctually attended to his works of charity and, when—­in the country, accompanied that lady on her rounds, just as you do.  His family enjoys an excellent reputation at Paris; I used to find him with Madame Pierson whenever I called; his manners were excellent.  As for the rest, I speak truly and frankly, as becomes me when it concerns persons of his merit.  I believe that he only comes here for the chase; he was a friend of her husband; he is said to be rich and very generous; but I know nothing about it except that—­”

With what tortured phrases was this dull tormentor teasing me.  I was ashamed to listen to him, yet not daring to ask a single question or interrupt his vile insinuations.  I was alone on the promenade; the poisoned arrow of suspicion had entered my heart.  I did not know whether I felt more of anger or of sorrow.  The confidence with which I had abandoned myself to my love for Brigitte had been so sweet and so natural that I could not bring myself to believe that so much happiness had been built upon an illusion.  That sentiment of credulity which had attracted me to her seemed a proof that she was worthy.  Was it possible that these four months of happiness were but a dream?

But after all, I thought, that woman has yielded too easily.  Was there not deception in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the country?  Is she not just like all the rest?  Yes, that is the way they all do; they attempt to escape in order to experience the happiness of being pursued:  it is the feminine instinct.  Was it not she who confessed her love by her own act, at the very moment I had decided that she would never be mine?  Did she not accept my arm the first day I met her?  If Dalens has been her lover, he probably is still; there is a certain sort of liaison that has neither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it is resumed; when parted, it is forgotten.

If that man comes here this summer, she will probably see him without breaking with me.  Who is this aunt, what mysterious life is this that has charity for its cloak, this liberty that cares nothing for opinion?  May they not be adventurers, these two women with their little house, their prudence, and their caution, which enable them to impose on people so easily?  Assuredly, for all I know, I have fallen into an affair of gallantry when I thought I was engaged in a romance.  But what can I do?  There is no one here who can help me except the priest, who does not care to tell me what he knows, and his uncle, who will say still less.  Who will save me?  How can I learn the truth?

Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that I had suffered, I had come at the end of two days to a point where I was tormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily.  Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to dispute with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love.