While absorbed in these reflections I was slowly approaching Madame Pierson’s.

I found the gate open, and as I entered the garden I saw a light in the kitchen.  I thought of questioning the servant, I stepped to the window.

A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot.  The servant was an old woman, thin and wrinkled and bent, a common deformity in people who have worked in the fields.  I found her shaking a cooking utensil over a filthy sink.  A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her were pots, kettles, and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed at, from time to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odor emanated from the reeking walls.  When the old woman caught sight of me, she smiled in a confidential way; she had seen me take leave of her mistress.

I shuddered as I thought what I had come to seek in a spot so well suited to my ignoble purpose.  I fled from that old woman as from jealousy personified, and as if the stench of her cooking had come from my heart.

Brigitte was at the window watering her well-beloved flowers; a child of one of her neighbors was lying in a cradle at her side, and she was gently rocking the cradle with her disengaged hand; the child’s mouth was full of bonbons, and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing an incomprehensible apostrophe to its nurse.  I sat down near her and kissed the child on its fat cheeks, as if to imbibe some of its innocence.  Brigitte accorded me a timid greeting; she could see her troubled image in my eyes.  For my part I avoided her glance; the more I admired her beauty and her air of candor, the more I was convinced that such a woman was either an angel or a monster of perfidy; I forced myself to recall each one of Mercanson’s words, and I confronted, so to speak, the man’s insinuations with her presence and her face.  “She is very beautiful,” I said to myself, “and very dangerous if she knows how, to deceive; but I will fathom her and I will sound her heart; and she shall know who I am.”

“My dear,” I said after a long silence, “I have just given a piece of advice to a friend who consulted me.  He is an honest young man, and he writes me that a woman he loves has another lover.  He asks me what he ought to do.”

“What reply did you make?”

“Two questions:  Is she pretty?  Do you love her?  If you love her, forget her; if she is pretty and you do not love her, keep her for your pleasure; there will always be time to quit her, if it is merely a matter of beauty, and one is worth as much as another.”

Hearing me speak thus, Brigitte put down the child she was holding and sat down at the other end of the room.  There was no light in the room; the moon, which was shining on the spot where she had been standing, threw a shadow over the sofa on which she was now seated.  The words I had uttered were so heartless, so cruel, that I was dazed myself, and my heart was filled with bitterness.  The child in its cradle began to cry.  Then all three of us were silent while a cloud passed over the moon.