ion to leave France had changed everything: joy, hope,
confidence, all returned; no more sorrow, no more grief over approaching
separation. We had now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows of
eternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forget
all the suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such
proof of tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did
Brigitte pardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater
sacrifice and leave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the
devotion she exhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last my
good angel had triumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway in
my heart. Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go
and bury ourselves from the world. We had not yet decided, and we found
pleasure in that very uncertainty; while glancing over the map we said
"Where shall we go? What shall we do? Where shall we begin life anew?"
How shall I tell how deeply I repented my cruelty when I looked upon
her smiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still pale
from the sorrows of the past! Blissful projects of future joy, you are
perhaps the only true happiness known to man! For eight days we spent
our time making purchases and preparing for our departure; then a young
man presented himself at our apartments: he brought letters to Brigitte.
After their interview I found her sad and distraught; but I could not
guess the cause unless the letters were from N------, that village
where I had confessed my love and where Brigitte's only relatives lived.
Nevertheless, our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatient
to get away; at the same time I was so happy that I could hardly rest.
When I arose in the morning and the sun was shining through our windows,
I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated
with happiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love for
Brigitte that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her skirt. Her lightest
words made me tremble as if her voice were strange to me; I alternated
between tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except with
horror and disgust. Our room was full of personal effects scattered
about in disorder--albums, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so
much. We went to and fro about the little apartment; at brief intervals
I would stop and kneel before Brigitte who would call me an idler,
saying that sh