"Brigitte," I suddenly inquired, "what secret are you concealing from me?
If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are playing before me?"
"I!" said she almost offended. "What makes you think I am playing?"
"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?