nt for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in your
life only because of the evil I have done you!"

"I do not know," she said, "who is busying himself in our affairs;
certain insinuations, mixed with idle gossip, have been set afloat in
the village and in the neighboring country. Some say that I have been
ruined; others accuse me of imprudence and folly; others represent you
as a cruel and dangerous man. Some one has spied into our most secret
thoughts; things that I thought no one else knew, events in your life
and sad scenes to which they have led, are known to others; my poor
aunt spoke to me about it not long ago, and she knew it some time before
speaking to me. Who knows but that that has hastened her death?

"When I meet my old friends in the street, they either treat me coldly,
or turn aside. Even my dear peasant girls, those good girls who love
me so much, shrug their shoulders when they see my place empty at the
Sunday afternoon balls. How has that come about? I do not know, nor do
you, I suppose; but I must go away, I can not endure it. And my aunt's
death, so sudden, so unexpected, above all, this solitude! this empty
room! Courage fails me; my friend, my friend, do not abandon me!"

She wept; in an adjoining room I saw her household goods in disorder, a
trunk on the floor, everything indicating preparations for departure. It
was evident that, at the time of her aunt's death, Brigitte had tried
to go away without seeing me, but could not. She was so overwhelmed with
emotion that she could hardly speak; her condition was pitiful, and it
was I who had brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she was
insulted in public, and the man who ought to be her support and her
consolation in such an hour was the cause of all her troubles.

I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly that I was overcome with
shame. After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plans
and hopes, what had I, in fact, accomplished in three months? I thought
I had a treasure in my heart, and out of it came nothing but malice, the
shadow of a dream, and the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the first
time I found myself really face to face with myself. Brigitte reproached
me for nothing; she had tried to go away and could not; she was ready to
suffer still. I suddenly asked myself whether I ought not to leave her,
whether it was not my duty to flee from her and rid her of the scourge
of my presence.

I arose