ly that
such a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself. How skilfully the
most guilty and treacherous of your sex contrive to use proud disdain as
a shield! Your great weapon is silence; I did not learn that yesterday.
You wish to be insulted and you hold your tongue until it comes to that.
Come, struggle against my heart--where yours beats you will find it; but
do not struggle against my head, it is harder than iron, and it has
served me as long as yours!"

"Poor boy!" murmured Brigitte; "you do not want to go?"

"No, I shall not go except with my beloved, and you are not that now. I
have struggled, I have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long enough.
It is time for day to break, I have loved long enough in the night. Yes
or no, will you answer me?"

"No."

"As you please; I will wait."

I sat down on the other side of the room, determined not to rise until I
had learned what I wished to know. She appeared to be reflecting, and
walked back and forth before me.

I followed her with an eager eye, while her silence gradually increased
my anger. I was unwilling to have her perceive it and was undecided what
to do. I opened the window.

"You may drive off," I called to those below, "and I will see that you
are paid. I shall not start to-night."

"Poor boy!" repeated Brigitte. I quietly closed the window and sat down
as if I had not heard her; but I was so furious with rage that I could
hardly restrain myself. That cold silence, that negative force,
exasperated me to the last point. Had I been really deceived and
convinced of the guilt of a woman I loved I could not have suffered more.
As I had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I reflected that I must
compel Brigitte to speak at any price. In vain I tried to think of some
means of forcing her to enlighten me; for such power I would have given
all I possessed. What could I do or say? She sat there calm and
unruffled, looking at me with sadness. I heard the sound of the horses'
hoofs on the paving as the carriage drew out of the court. I had merely
to turn my hand to call them back, but it seemed to me that there was
something irrevocable about their departure. I slipped the bolt on the
door; something whispered in my ear: "You are face to face with the woman
who must give you life or death."

While thus buried in thought I tried to invent some expedient that would
lead to the truth. I recalled one of Diderot's romances in which a woman,
jealous of her