Suddenly, Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head and was silent. When I asked her if 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 I told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as though 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 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 obstinately remained 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 force of habit. I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theater. 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 centered 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 loss of some 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! she conceals 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 hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of caprice in that woman such as I knew her? I was lost in the abyss of doubt and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point on which to base conjecture.