ous chords that
vibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the
simple words: "All is ready, we are about to go"?

Suddenly Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head in silence. When I
asked her whether she was in pain, she said "No!" in a voice that was
scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and
resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she
was going to be happy, and that I would consecrate my life to her, she
shut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her she turned pale,
and averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her that
nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our
plans, she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me
and told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her
arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as if involuntarily.
Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which our
places were marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached her and
placed it in her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed, and fell
unconscious at my feet.

CHAPTER II

THE DEMON OF DOUBT

All my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as vain
as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill, and remained
obstinately silent. After an entire day passed in supplication and
conjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing the
Opera, I entered it from mere force of habit.

I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theatre, I was so
overwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak,
except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses.
All my powers were centred on a single thought, and the more I turned it
over in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning.

What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and the
realization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event or
even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or the loss of a friend,
why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when our
dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of a secret
that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me? What! to
conceal it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart to suspect
her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with horror.
On the other