But what can I do? There is no one here who can help me except
the priest, who does not care to tell me what he knows, and his uncle who
will say still less. Who will save me? How can I learn the truth?
Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that I had
suffered, I had come, at the end of two days, to a point where I was
tormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily.
Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to dispute
with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love.
While absorbed in these reflections, I was slowly approaching Madame
Pierson's.
I found gate open, and as I entered the garden, I saw a light in the
kitchen. I thought of questioning the servant, I stepped to the window.
A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot. The servant was an old woman,
thin and wrinkled and habitually bent over, a common deformity in people
who have worked in the fields. I found her shaking a cooking utensil over
a filthy sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her
were pots, kettles and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed
at, from time to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odor
emanated from the reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me,
she smiled in a confidential way; she had seen me take leave of her
mistress.
I shuddered as I thought what I had come to seek in a spot so well suited
to my ignoble purpose.
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