She turned on me like a flash.

“Speak to me of your love,” she said, “not of your grief.”

“Very well, I love you more than life.  Beside my love, my grief is but a dream.  Come with me to the end of the world, I will die or I will live with you.”

With these words I advanced toward her; she turned pale and recoiled.  She made a vain effort to force a smile on her contracted lips, and sitting down before her desk she said: 

“One moment; I have some papers here I want to burn.”

She showed me the letters from N------, tore them up and threw them into
the fire; she then took out other papers which she reread and then spread
out on the table.  They were bills of purchases she had made and some of
them were still unpaid.  While examining them she began to talk rapidly,
while her cheeks burned as if with fever.  Then she begged my pardon for
her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival.

She gave evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever.  She clapped her hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; in short, she was all love, or at least apparently all love.  I can not tell how I suffered at the sight of that factitious joy; there was in that grief which crazed her something more sad than tears and more bitter than reproaches.  I would have preferred to have her cold and indifferent rather than thus excited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiest moments.  There were the same words, the same woman, the same caresses; and that which, fifteen days before would have intoxicated me with love and happiness, repeated thus, filled me with horror.

“Brigitte,” I suddenly inquired, “what secret are you concealing from me?  If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are enacting before me?”

“I!” said she, almost offended.  “What makes you think I am acting?”

“What makes me think so?  Tell me, my dear, that you have death in your soul and that you are suffering martyrdom.  Behold my arms are ready to receive you; lean your head on me and weep.  Then I will take you away, perhaps; but in truth, not thus.”

“Let us go, let us go!” she again repeated.

“No, on my soul!  No, not at present; no, not while there is between us a lie or a mask.  I like unhappiness better than such cheerfulness as yours.”

She was silent, astonished to see that I had not been deceived by her words and manner and that I saw through them both.

“Why should we delude ourselves?” I continued.

“Have I fallen so low in your esteem that you can dissimulate before me?  That unfortunate journey, you think you are condemned to it, do you?  Am I a tyrant, an absolute master?  Am I an executioner who drags you to punishment?  How much do you fear my wrath when you come before me with such mimicry?  What terror impels you to lie thus?”

“You are wrong,” she replied; “I beg of you, not a word more.”