t her; in my most violent moments I would rather have died
than touched her.

One evening the rain was driving against the windows; we were alone, the
curtains were closed.

"I am in happy humor this evening," I said to Brigitte, "and yet the
horrible weather saddens me. Let us seek some diversion in spite of the
storm."

I arose and lighted all the candles I could find. The room was small and
the illumination brilliant. At the same time a bright fire threw out a
stifling heat:

"Come," I said, "what shall we do while waiting for supper?"

I happened to remember that it was carnival time in Paris I seemed to
see the carriages filled with masks crossing the boulevards. I heard the
shouts of the crowds before the theatres; I saw the lascivious dances,
the gay costumes, the wine and the folly; all my youth bounded in my
heart.

"Let us disguise ourselves," I said to Brigitte. "It will be for our
own amusement, but what does that matter? If you have no costumes we can
make them, and pass away the time agreeably."

We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks, and artificial flowers;
Brigitte, as usual, was patient and cheerful. We both arranged a sort of
travesty; she wished to dress my hair herself; we painted and powdered
ourselves freely; all that we lacked was found in an old chest that had
belonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an hour we could not recognize each
other. The evening passed in singing, in a thousand follies; toward one
o'clock in the morning it was time for supper.

We had ransacked all the closets; there was one near me that remained
open. While sitting down at the table, I perceived on a shelf the book
of which I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomed
to write.

"Is it not a collection of your thoughts?" I asked, stretching out my
hand and taking the book down. "If I may, allow me to look at it."

I opened the book, although Brigitte made a gesture as if to prevent me;
on the first page I read these words:

"This is my last will and testament."

Everything was written in a firm hand; I found first a faithful recital
of all that Brigitte had suffered on my account since she had been my
mistress. She announced her firm determination to endure everything,
so long as I loved her, and to die when I left her. Her daily life was
recorded there; what she had lost, what she had hoped, the isolation she
experienced even in my presence, the barrier that was growing up between