my lips, I sank into a chair with an air of deliberate
insolence; then I saw Brigitte approach, her large eyes filled with
tenderness and anxiety; I seized her little hands in mine and lost
myself in an infinite dream.

How name a thing that is nameless? Was I good or bad? Was I distrustful
or a fool? It is useless to reflect on it; it happened thus.

One of our neighbors was a young woman whose name was Madame Daniel. She
possessed some beauty, and still more coquetry; she was poor, but tried
to pass for rich; she would come to see us after dinner and always
played a heavy game against us, although her losses embarrassed her; she
sang, but had no voice. In the solitude of that unknown village, where
an unkind fate had buried her, she was consumed with an uncontrollable
passion for pleasure. She talked of nothing but Paris, which she visited
two or three times a year. She pretended to keep up with the fashions,
and my dear Brigitte assisted her as best she could, while smiling with
pity. Her husband was employed by the government; once a year he would
take her to the house of the chief of his department, where, attired
in her best, the little woman danced to her heart's content. She would
return with shining eyes and tired body; she would come to us to tell of
her prowess, and her success in assaulting the masculine heart. The rest
of the time she read novels, never taking the trouble to look after her
household affairs, which were not always in the best condition.

Whenever I saw her, I laughed at her, finding nothing so ridiculous
as the high life she thought she was leading. I would interrupt
her description of a ball to inquire about her husband and her
father-in-law, both of whom she detested, the one because he was her
husband, and the other because he was only a peasant; in short, we were
always disputing on some subject.

In my evil moments I thought of paying court to her just for the sake of
annoying Brigitte.

"You see," I said, "how perfectly Madame Daniel understands life! In her
present sprightly humor could one desire a more charming mistress?"

I then paid her the most extravagant compliments; her senseless
chatting I described as unrestraint tempered by finesse, her pretentious
exaggerations as a natural desire to please; was it her fault that she
was poor? At least she thought of nothing but pleasure and confessed it
freely; she did not preach sermons herself, nor did she listen to them
from othe