inding path that led to the mountain. Above them
were the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits.
Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The
valley resembled a lake of verdure, and the eye followed its contour
with delight.

"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some
figures on the picture.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it
resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you, and can I not, if I am
skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?"

The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two
faces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. The
faces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the
likenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened
and I was called away by the servant.

When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the
picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound revery, and was not
aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire, and it was not until
I spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment,
then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him
strike his forehead with his hand.

When I saw these signs of grief, I said to myself "What does it mean?"
Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know; perhaps my
good angel, perhaps my evil fate.

CHAPTER IV. IN THE FURNACE

My heart yearned to set out and yet I delayed; some secret influence
rooted me to the spot.

When Smith came I knew no repose from the time he entered the room. How
is it that sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness?

One day a word, a flush, a glance, made me shudder; another day, another
glance, another word, threw me into uncertainty. Why were they both
so sad? Why was I as motionless as a statue where I had formerly been
violent? Every evening in bed I said to myself: "Let me see; let me
think that over." Then I would spring up, crying: "Impossible!" The next
day I did the same thing.

In Smith's presence, Brigitte treated me with more tenderness than when
we were alone. It happened one evening that some hard words escaped us;
when she heard his voice in the hall she came and sat on my knees.
As for him, it seemed to me he was always making an effort to control
himself. His gestures were carefully regula