"What makes me think so? Tell me, my dear, that you have death in your soul and that you are suffering martyrdom. Behold my arms are ready to receive you; lean your head on me and weep. Then I will take you away, perhaps; but in 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 lay 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 playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glass before which you stand? Would 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 examining. She picked it up, then allowed it to drop to the floor. "Is that all?" I asked. "Yes, that is all." When I ordered the horses I had no idea that we would really go, I wished merely to make a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me to carry my plans farther than I at first intended. I opened the door.