"Can you not forget
all that?" Brigitte would sadly inquire, "if there are two different men
in you, do you not, when the bad rouses himself, forget to humor the
good?"
The patience with which Brigitte opposed those vagaries only served to
excite my sinister gaiety. Strange that man who suffers wishes to make
her, whom he loves, suffer! To lose control of oneself, is that not the
worst of evils? Is there anything more cruel for a woman than to hear a
man turn to derision all there is that is sacred and mysterious? Yet she
did not flee from me; she remained at my side while in my savage humor, I
insulted love and allowed insane ravings to escape from lips that were
still moist with her kisses.
On such days, contrary to my usual inclination, I liked to talk of Paris
and speak of my life of debauchery as the most commendable thing in the
world. "You are nothing but a saint," I would laughingly observe; "you do
not understand what I say. There is nothing like those careless ones who
make love without believing in it." Was that not the same as saying that
I did not believe in it?
"Very well," Brigitte replied, "teach me how to please you always. I am
perhaps as pretty as those mistresses whom you mourn; if I have not their
skill to divert you, I beg that you will instruct me. Act as though you
did not love me and let me love you without saying anything about it. If
I am devoted to religion, I am also devoted to love.
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