Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalled that name of Brigitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I asked her whether it was not her crown of roses that she had just broken thus.
“No,” she replied, turning pale.
“Yes,” I cried, “yes, on my life! Give me the pieces.”
I gathered them up and placed them on the altar, then I was silent, my eyes fixed on the offering.
“Was I not right,” she asked, “if it was my crown, to take it from the wall where it has hung so long?
“Of what use are these remains? Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor the flowers that baptized her.” She went out. I heard her sobs, and the door closed on me; I fell on my knees and wept bitterly. When I returned to her room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was ready. I took my place in silence, and not a word was said of what was in our hearts.
CHAPTER V. A TORTURED SOUL
It was Mercanson who had repeated in the village and in the chateau my conversation with him about Dalens and the suspicions that, in spite of myself, I had allowed him clearly to see. Every one knows how bad news travels in the provinces, flying from mouth to mouth and growing as it flies; that is what had happened in this case.
Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in a new position. However feebly she may have tried to flee, she had nevertheless made the attempt. It was on account of my prayers that she remained; there was an obligation implied. I was under oath not to grieve her either by my jealousy or my levity; every thoughtless or mocking word that escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance from her was a reproach acknowledged and merited.