“Ah! my friend,” she said, “I pity you.”
“Listen to me,” I whispered in her ear, “I am a wretched fool, but I can keep nothing on my heart. Who is this Monsieur de Dalens who lives on the mountain and comes to see you?”
She appeared astonished to hear me mention that name.
“Dalens?” she replied. “He was my husband’s friend.”
She looked at me as if to inquire: “Why do you ask?” It seemed to me that her face wore a grieved expression. I bit my lips. “If she wants to deceive me,” I thought, “I was foolish to question her.”
Brigitte rose with difficulty; she took her fan and began to walk up and down the room.
She was breathing hard; I had wounded her. She was absorbed in thought and we exchanged two or three glances that were almost cold. She stepped to her desk, opened it, drew out a package of letters tied together with a ribbon, and threw it at my feet without a word.
But I was looking neither at her nor her letters; I had just thrown a stone into the abyss and was listening to the echoes. For the first time offended pride was depicted on Brigitte’s face. There was no longer either anxiety or pity in her eyes, and, just as I had come to feel myself other than I had ever been, so I saw in her a woman I did not know.
“Read that,” she said, finally. I stepped up to her and took her hand.
“Read that, read that!” she repeated in freezing tones.