On another occasion, I had bought an album containing views of Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte found a site that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There was one view that seemed to please her more than all the others; it was a certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; some trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance, a village consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In the foreground, a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and a farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing her attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The valley resembled a lake of verdure and the eye followed its contour with delight. "Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some figures on the picture. "What are you doing?" she asked. "I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you and can I not, if I am skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?" The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two faces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. The faces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the likenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened and I was called away by the servant. When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound reverie and was not aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire and it was not until I spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment, then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him strike his forehead with his hand. When I discovered these signs of grief, I said to myself: "What does it mean?" Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know; perhaps my good angel, perhaps my evil destiny. CHAPTER IV MY heart yearned to set out and yet I delayed; some secret influence rooted me to the spot. When Smith came, I knew no repose from the time he entered the room. How is it that we frequently seem to enjoy unhappiness? One day a word, a flush, a glance, made me shudder; another day, another glance, another word, threw me into uncertainty. Why are they both so sad? Why am I as motionless as a statue where I had formerly been violent? Every evening I sat on my bed and said to myself: "Let me see; let me think that over." Then I sprang to my feet crying: "Impossible!" The next day, I did the same thing.