want to burn."

She showed me the letters from N------, tore them up and threw them
into the fire; she then took out other papers which she reread and then
spread out on the table. They were bills of purchases she had made and
some of them were still unpaid. While examining them she began to talk
rapidly, while her cheeks burned as if with fever. Then she begged my
pardon for her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival.

She gave evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. She
clapped her hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; in
short, she was all love, or at least apparently all love. I can not tell
how I suffered at the sight of that factitious joy; there was in that
grief which crazed her something more sad than tears and more bitter
than reproaches. I would have preferred to have her cold and indifferent
rather than thus excited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiest
moments. There were the same words, the same woman, the same caresses;
and that which, fifteen days before would have intoxicated me with love
and happiness, repeated thus, filled me with horror.

"Brigitte," I suddenly inquired, "what secret are you concealing from
me? If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are enacting before
me?"

"I!" said she, almost offended. "What makes you think I am acting?"

"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 a