“Were you there?” asked Brigitte.  She trembled and seemed surprised.

“Yes, I was there,” I replied.  “Sing, my dear, I beg of you.  Let me hear your sweet voice.”

She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well as Smith’s; her voice faltered.  With the last notes she arose, and came to me and kissed me.

On another occasion I had brought an album containing views of Switzerland.  We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte found a scene that pleased her, she would stop to examine it.  There was one view that seemed to attract her more than the others; it was a certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; some trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance a village consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there.  In the foreground a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and a farmer’s boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing her attention to a winding path that led to the mountain.  Above them were the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits.  Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape.  The valley resembled a lake of verdure, and the eye followed its contour with delight.

“Shall we go there?” I asked Brigitte.  I took a pencil and traced some figures on the picture.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it resemble yours.  The pretty hat would become you, and can I not, if I am skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?”

The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two faces.  When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine.  The faces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the likenesses were striking.  While we were laughing at it, the door opened and I was called away by the servant.

When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the picture with interest.  He was absorbed in a profound revery, and was not aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire, and it was not until I spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head.  He looked at us a moment, then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him strike his forehead with his hand.

When I saw these signs of grief, I said to myself “What does it mean?” Then I clasped my hands to plead with—­whom?  I do not know; perhaps my good angel, perhaps my evil fate.

CHAPTER IV

IN THE FURNACE

My heart yearned to set out and yet I delayed; some secret influence rooted me to the spot.

When Smith came I knew no repose from the time he entered the room.  How is it that sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness?