truth, not thus."

"Let us go, let us go!" she again repeated.

"No, on my soul! No, not at present; no, not while there is between us a
lie or a mask. I like unhappiness better than such cheerfulness as
yours."

She was silent, astonished to see that I had not been deceived by her
words and manner and that I saw through them both.

"Why should we delude ourselves?" I continued.

"Have I fallen so low in your esteem that you can dissimulate before me?
That unfortunate journey, you think you are condemned to it, do you? Am I
a tyrant, an absolute master? Am I an executioner who drags you to
punishment? How much do you fear my wrath when you come before me with
such mimicry? What terror impels you to lie thus?"

"You are wrong," she replied; "I beg of you, not a word more."

"Why so little sincerity? If I am not your confidant, may I not at least
be your friend? If I am denied all knowledge of the source of your tears,
may I not at least see them flow? Have you not enough confidence in me to
believe that I will respect your sorrow? What have I done that I should
be ignorant of it? Might not the remedy lie right there?"

"No," she replied, "you are wrong; you will achieve your own unhappiness
as well as mine if you press me farther. Is it not enough that we are
going away?"

"And do you expect me to drag you away against your will? Is it not
evident that you have consented reluctantly, and that you already begin
to repent? Great God! What is it you are concealing from me? What is the
use of playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glass
before which you stand? Should I not be the meanest of men to accept at
your hands what is yielded with so much regret? And yet how can I refuse
it? What can I do if you refuse to speak?"

"No, I do not oppose you, you are mistaken; I love you, Octave; cease
tormenting me thus."

She threw so much tenderness into these words that I fell down on my
knees before her. Who could resist her glance and her voice?

"My God!" I cried, "you love me, Brigitte? My dear mistress, you love
me?"

"Yes, I love you; yes. I belong to you; do with me what you will. I will
follow you, let us go away together; come, Octave, the carriage is
waiting."

She pressed my hand in hers, and kissed my forehead.

"Yes, it must be," she murmured, "it must be."

"It must be," I repeated to myself. I arose.

On the table there remained only one piece of paper that Brigitte was
examin