y heart. Every moment is occupied, for when I am not
working, I sleep, and when I wake, I work. I would rather spend one
perfect day with you and die, than live on without you. This is the
truth. If I had any choice that would be my choice. But I know you
want me to be courageous, and I myself want you to see that a
woman's love can be as strong as a man's. Women are supposed to
make men weak--they are supposed to be chains and hindrances. This
shan't be said of me. You wouldn't say it: you wouldn't think it:
yet in history I find that while a few have been saved by women,
more have been ruined by them. And where the women have saved the
men they loved, it has been done by great renunciations and
sacrifices--not at all by selfishness and joys. When I can remember
this (I forget it too easily), I can almost persuade myself that I
don't long to see you, to hear your voice, to be with you again on
the boat--going on and on toward Miraflores. But I never persuade
myself of this entirely--never, never. I do long to see you,
Robert: I do want to be with you. I envy the servant in your
lodgings, and the friends you meet. And I--who love you so
dearly--may not go near you. I am going to act to-night--as if I
were not acting all day, every day! I haven't said one word about
you. But you couldn't be so wretched as I am, because _you_ have
yourself, _you_ know what you are doing, saying, and thinking. Now
if I could cease altogether and become, say, your hand or your
foot, no one would expect you to renounce me. I might be useful,
and it would certainly be no scandal if I accompanied you
everywhere! I won't say any more.

BRIGIT.

She addressed an envelope and sealed the letter within it. Then, with
tears streaming down her cheeks, she read her part for the comedy that
evening. When Esther entered with her dressing-gown, she held up her
hands in dismay.

"O Madame," said she, "I thought you were going to play an amusing
piece!"

"It will be very amusing," said Brigit, "but this is the way to rehearse
it."

CHAPTER XXVII

The Marquis of Castrillon, meanwhile, was pirouetting sublimely before
the long mirror in his dressing-room, while his valet, a sour-faced
individual, looked on in great but gloomy interest. The Marquis was
superbly dressed in a Louis Seize cos