In front of me in the gallery, sat a young man whose face was not unknown to me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him without thinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him. Suddenly, I recognized him: it was he, who had brought letters to Brigitte from N-----. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what I was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbing a large number of spectators and I was forced to await the entr'acte. My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was this young man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson the last few days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressed after his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken ill. The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possible that he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did not know all the circumstances, but he could, doubtless, enlighten me as to the contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I should hesitate about questioning him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to the foyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away and entered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stood looking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last, he appeared. I bowed and approached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared down a stairway. My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any other explanation than deliberate intention to avoid me on his part. He surely knew my face, and whether he knew it or not, a man who sees another approaching him, ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the only ones in the corridor at the time and there could be no doubt he did not wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment from a man, whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why should he insult me? He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an awkward interview, during which questions might be asked, which he did not care to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost as much as the first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head, that young man's action in avoiding me seemed to have some connection with Brigitte's obstinate silence. Uncertainty is of all torments, the most difficult to endure, and during my life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not wait patiently. When I returned to my apartments, I found Brigitte reading those same fateful letters from N-----. I told her that I could not remain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it at any cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden, change which had taken place in her, and that if she refused to speak I would look upon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an order for me to leave her forever.