Never, in my first love, nor in the affairs of daily life have I been
distrustful, but on the contrary, bold and frank, suspecting nothing. I
had to see my mistress betray me before my eyes before I would believe
that she could deceive me. Desgenais himself, while preaching to me after
his manner, joked me about the ease with which I could be duped. The
story of my life was an incontestable proof that I was credulous rather
than suspicious; and when the words in that book suddenly struck me, it
seemed to me I felt a new being within me, a sort of unknown self; my
reason revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare ask whither all
that was leading me.
But the suffering I had endured, the memory of the perfidy that I had
witnessed, the frightful cure I had imposed on myself, the opinions of my
friends, the corrupt life I had led, the sad truths I had learned, all
those that I had unconsciously surmised during my sad experience,
finally, debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of everything, that is what
I had in my heart although I did not suspect it; and at the moment when
life and hope were again being born within me, all these furies that were
growing numb with time, seized me by the throat and cried out that they
were there.
I bent over and opened the book, then immediately closed it and threw it
on the table. Brigitte was looking at me; in her beautiful eyes there was
neither wounded pride nor anger; there was nothing but tender solicitude
as if I were ill.
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