"O man!" I mused, "and by what right? How dared you come to this house
and lay hands on this woman? Who has ordained that she should suffer for
you? You array yourself in fine linen and set out, sleek and happy, for
the home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon the
cushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, and you
gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You think it no
evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in your
deliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes from a
suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy, you make sport of
suffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments, to commit
murder by means of little pin pricks. What will you say to the living God
when your work is finished? What will become of the woman who loves you?
Where will you fall while she leans on you for support? With what face
will you one day bury your pale and wretched creature, who has just
buried the only being who was left to protect her? Yes, yes, you will
doubtless have to bury her, for your love kills and consumes; you have
devoted her to the furies and it is she who appeases them. If you follow
that woman, you will be the cause of her death. Take care! her guardian
angel hesitates; he has just knocked at the door of this house, in order
to frighten away a fatal and shameful passion! He inspired Brigitte with
the idea of flight; at this moment he may be whispering in her ear his
final warning.
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