“No, I will not speak.”

“You will speak!  Do you fondly imagine I am the dupe of your lies?  When I see you change between morning and evening until you differ more from your natural self than does night from day, do you think I am deceived?  When you give me as a cause some letters that are not worth the trouble of reading, do you imagine that I am to be put off with the first pretext that comes to hand because you do not choose to seek another?  Is your face made of plaster, that it is difficult to see what is passing in your heart?  What is your opinion of me?  I do not deceive myself as much as you suppose, and take care lest in default of words your silence discloses what you so obstinately conceal.”

“What do you imagine I am concealing?”

“What do I imagine?  You ask me that!  Is it to brave me you ask such a question!  Do you think to make me desperate and thus get rid of me?  Yes, I admit it, offended pride is capable of driving me to extremes.  If I should explain myself freely, you would have at your service all feminine hypocrisy; you hope that I will accuse you, so that you can reply that such a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself.  How skilfully the most guilty and treacherous of your sex contrive to use proud disdain as a shield!  Your great weapon is silence; I did not learn that yesterday.  You wish to be insulted and you hold your tongue until it comes to that.  Come, struggle against my heart—­where yours beats you will find it; but do not struggle against my head, it is harder than iron, and it has served me as long as yours!”

“Poor boy!” murmured Brigitte; “you do not want to go?”

“No, I shall not go except with my beloved, and you are not that now.  I have struggled, I have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long enough.  It is time for day to break, I have loved long enough in the night.  Yes or no, will you answer me?”

“No.”

“As you please; I will wait.”

I sat down on the other side of the room, determined not to rise until I had learned what I wished to know.  She appeared to be reflecting, and walked back and forth before me.

I followed her with an eager eye, while her silence gradually increased my anger.  I was unwilling to have her perceive it and was undecided what to do.  I opened the window.

“You may drive off,” I called to those below, “and I will see that you are paid.  I shall not start to-night.”

“Poor boy!” repeated Brigitte.  I quietly closed the window and sat down as if I had not heard her; but I was so furious with rage that I could hardly restrain myself.  That cold silence, that negative force, exasperated me to the last point.  Had I been really deceived and convinced of the guilt of a woman I loved I could not have suffered more.  As I had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I reflected that I must compel Brigitte to speak at any price.  In vain I tried to think of some means of forcing