CHAPTER IV
AS I was crossing the public square one evening, I saw two men standing
together; one of them said:
"It appears to me that he has ill-treated her."
"It is her fault," replied the other; "why choose such a man? He has
known only public women; she is paying the price of her folly."
I advanced in the darkness to see who was speaking thus, and to hear more
if possible; but they passed on as soon as they spied me.
I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt was seriously ill; she had time
for only a few words with me. I did not see her for an entire week; I
knew that she had summoned a physician from Paris; finally, she sent for
me.
"My aunt is dead," she said; "I lose the only one left me on earth, I am
now alone in the world and I am going to leave the country."
"Am I, then, nothing to you?"
"Yes, my friend; you know that I love you, and I often believe that you
love me. But how can I count on you? I am your mistress, alas! but you
are not my lover. It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sad
words: 'Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very
opal.' And I, Octave," she added, pointing to her mourning costume, "I am
reduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a long time."
"Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I will
follow you. Ah! Brigitte," I continued, throwing myself on my knees
before her, "you thought you were alone when your aunt died! That is the
most cruel punishment you could inflict on me; never, have I so keenly
felt the misery of my love for you.
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