I was
ashamed to listen to him, yet dared not to ask a single question or
interrupt his vile insinuations. I was alone on the promenade; the
poisoned arrow of suspicion had entered my heart. I did not know whether
I felt more of anger or of sorrow. The confidence with which I had
abandoned myself to my love for Brigitte, had been so sweet and so
natural that I could not bring myself to believe that so much happiness
had been built upon an illusion. That sentiment of credulity, which had
attracted me to her, seemed a proof that she was worthy. Was it possible
that these four months of happiness were but a dream?
But, after all, I thought that woman has yielded too easily. Was there
not deception in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the country? Is
she not just like all the rest? Yes, that is the way they all do; they
attempt to escape in order to know the happiness of being pursued: it is
the feminine instinct. Was it not she who confessed her love by her own
act, at the very moment I had decided that she would never be mine? Did
she not accept my arm, the first day I met her? If that Dalens has been
her lover, he probably is still; there are certain liaisons that have
neither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it is resumed;
when parted, it is forgotten. If that man comes here this summer, she
will probably see him without breaking with me. Who is that aunt, what
mysterious life is this that has charity for its cloak, this liberty that
cares nothing for opinion? May they not be adventurers, these two women
with their little house, their prudence and their caution which enables
them to impose on people so easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have
fallen into an affair of gallantry when I thought I was engaged in a
romance.
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