But, after all, I thought that woman has yielded too easily. Was there not deception in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the country? Is she not just like all the rest? Yes, that is the way they all do; they attempt to escape in order to know the happiness of being pursued: it is the feminine instinct. Was it not she who confessed her love by her own act, at the very moment I had decided that she would never be mine? Did she not accept my arm, the first day I met her? If that Dalens has been her lover, he probably is still; there are certain liaisons that have neither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it is resumed; when parted, it is forgotten. If that man comes here this summer, she will probably see him without breaking with me. Who is that aunt, what mysterious life is this that has charity for its cloak, this liberty that cares nothing for opinion? May they not be adventurers, these two women with their little house, their prudence and their caution which enables them to impose on people so easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have fallen into an affair of gallantry when I thought I was engaged in a romance. But what can I do? There is no one here who can help me except the priest, who does not care to tell me what he knows, and his uncle who will say still less. Who will save me? How can I learn the truth? Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that I had suffered, I had come, at the end of two days, to a point where I was tormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily. Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to dispute with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love. While absorbed in these reflections, I was slowly approaching Madame Pierson's. I found gate open, and as I entered the garden, I saw a light in the kitchen. I thought of questioning the servant, I stepped to the window. A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot. The servant was an old woman, thin and wrinkled and habitually bent over, a common deformity in people who have worked in the fields. I found her shaking a cooking utensil over a filthy sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her were pots, kettles and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed at, from time to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odor emanated from the reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me, she smiled in a confidential way; she had seen me take leave of her mistress. I shuddered as I thought what I had come to seek in a spot so well suited to my ignoble purpose. I fled from that old woman as from jealousy personified, and as though the stench of her dishes had come from my heart.