I arose and went to my room; a torrent of tears flowed from my eyes.  I held out my arms as if to seize the past which was escaping me.  “Is it possible,” I repeated, “that I am going to lose you?  I can love no one but you.  What! you are going away?  And forever?  What! you, my life, my adored mistress, you flee me, I shall never see you more?  Never! never!” I said aloud; and, addressing myself to the slumbering Brigitte as if she could hear me, I added:  “Never, never; do not think of it; I will never consent to it.  And why so much pride?  Are there no means of atoning for the offense I have committed?  I beg of you, let us seek some expiation.  Have you not pardoned me a thousand times?  But you love me, you will not be able to go, for courage will fail you.  What shall we do?”

A horrible madness seized me; I began to run here and there in search of some instrument of death.  At last I fell on my knees and beat my head against the bed.  Brigitte stirred, and I remained quiet, fearing I should waken her.

“Let her sleep until to-morrow,” I said to myself; “I have all night to watch her.”

I resumed my place; I was so frightened at the idea of waking Brigitte, that I scarcely dared breathe.  Gradually I became more calm and less bitter tears began to course gently down my cheeks.  Tenderness succeeded fury.  I leaned over Brigitte and looked at her as if, for the last time, my better angel were urging me to grave on my soul the lines of that dear face!

How pale she was!  Her large eyes, surrounded by a bluish circle, were moist with tears; her form, once so lithe, was bent as if beneath a burden; her cheek, wasted and leaden, rested on a hand that was spare and feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thorns which is the diadem of resignation.  I thought of the cottage.  How young she was six months ago!  How cheerful, how free, how careless!  What had I done with all that?  It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old romance that I had long since forgotten: 

          Altra volta gieri biele,
          Blanch’ e rossa com’ un flore,
          Ma ora no.  Non son piu biele
          Consumatis dal’ amore.

My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk the floor.  “Yes,” I continued, “look at her; think of those who are consumed by a grief that is not shared with another.  The evils you endure others have suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to you.  Think of those who have no mother, no relatives, no friends; of those who seek and do not find, of those who love in vain, of those who die and are forgotten.”