not now? It must be on the lips of both of them. Let it but come out
into the light and I will seize it."

"My dear Octave," said Brigitte, "where are we to stop? You will write
to us, Henri, will you not? You will not forget my relatives and will do
what you can for me?" He replied in a voice that trembled slightly that
he would do all in his power to serve her.

"I can answer for nothing," he said, "and, judging from the letters you
have received, there is not much hope. But it will not be my fault if I
do not send you good news. Count on me, I am devoted to you."

After a few more kind words he made ready to take his departure. I arose
and left the room before him; I wished to leave them together a moment
for the last time and, as soon as I had closed the door behind me, in a
perfect rage of jealousy, I pressed my ear to the keyhole.

"When shall I see you again?" he asked.

"Never," replied Brigitte; "adieu, Henri." She held out her hand. He
bent over it, pressed it to his lips and I had barely time to slip into
a corner as he passed out without seeing me.

Alone with Brigitte, my heart sank within me. She was waiting for me,
her shawl on her arm, and emotion plainly marked on her face. She had
found the key she had been looking for and her desk was open. I returned
and sat down near the fire. "Listen to me," I said, without daring to
look at her; "I have been so culpable in my treatment of you that I
ought to wait and suffer without a word of complaint. The change which
has taken place in you has thrown me into such despair that I have not
been able to refrain from asking you the cause; but to-day I ask nothing
more. Does it cost you an effort to depart? Tell me, and if so I am
resigned."

"Let us go, let us go!" she replied.

"As you please, but be frank; whatever blow I may receive, I ought not
to ask whence it comes; I should submit without a murmur. But if I lose
you, do not speak to me of hope, for God knows I will not survive the
loss."

She turned on me like a flash.

"Speak to me of your love," she said, "not of your grief."

"Very well, I love you more than life. Beside my love, my grief is but
a dream. Come with me to the end of the world, I will die or I will live
with you."

With these words I advanced toward her; she turned pale and recoiled.
She made a vain effort to force a smile on her contracted lips, and
sitting down before her desk she said:

"One moment; I have some papers here I