, and, passing into the next room, sat down on Brigitte's trunk.
There I leaned my head on my hand and sat motionless. I looked about me
at the confused piles of goods. Alas! I knew them all; my heart was
not so hardened that it could not be moved by the memories which they
awakened. I began to calculate all the harm I had done; I saw my dear
Brigitte walking under the lindens with her goat beside her.

"O man!" I mused, "and by what right?--how dared you come to this house,
and lay hands on this woman? Who has ordained that she should suffer for
you? You array yourself in fine linen, and set out, sleek and happy,
for the home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon the
cushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, and
you gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You think
it no evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in your
deliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes from
a suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy in making sport of
suffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments in
committing murder by means of little pin pricks.

"What will you say to the living God, when your work is finished? What
will become of the woman who loves you? Where will you fall while she
leans on you for support? With what face will you one day bury your pale
and wretched creature, just as she buried the last man who protected
her? Yes, yes, you will doubtless have to bury her, for your love kills
and consumes; you have devoted her to the Furies and it is she who
appeases them. If you follow that woman you will be the cause of her
death. Take care! her guardian angel hesitates; he has just knocked at
the door of this house, in order to frighten away a fatal and shameful
passion! He inspired Brigitte with the idea of flight; at this moment he
may be whispering in her ear his final warning. O assassin! O murderer!
Beware! it is a matter of life and death."

Thus I communed with myself; then on the sofa I caught sight of a little
gingham dress, folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. It had been a
witness of our happy days. I took it up and examined it.

"Must I leave you?" I said to it; "Must I lose you? O little dress,
would you go away without me?"

No, I can not abandon Brigitte; in these circumstances it would be
cowardly. She has just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is exposed
to the power of I know not what enemy.