e was a kind friend, and inspired me with full
confidence.

But despite all this, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could
not get rid of strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I had
seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as
Brigitte's, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered
between them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago I
would have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect
Brigitte? Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not
going away with me? Even were it possible that Smith could share some
secret of which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of the mystery?
What was there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship?

She had known him as a child; she met him again after long years just
as she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate
situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding
to her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful
glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and
regrets? Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long
journey, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions?
I felt this that must be the explanation, and that it was my duty to
assure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers,
and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered. And yet
a deadly chill oppressed me, and I could not determine what course to
pursue.

When Smith left us in the evening, we either were silent or talked
of him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him
continually. She, however, told me just what I have told my reader;
Smith's life had never been other than it was now--poor, obscure, and
honest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times,
without knowing why I took such an interest in it.

There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not
confess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest
happiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he
pressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I have
paid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had
he not--had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it
matter so long as I was happy? But while unable to divine the cause of
Brigitte's sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, what