For some time, I kept my word and not a cloud troubled our life. These
were happy days, but it is not of these that I must speak.
It was said everywhere about the country that Brigitte was living
publicly with a libertine from Paris; that her lover ill-treated her,
that they spent their time quarreling and that all of it would come to a
bad end. As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so
they blamed her now. There was nothing in her past life, even, that was
not picked to pieces and misrepresented. Her lonely tramps over the
mountains, when engaged in works of charity, suddenly became the subject
of quibbles and of raillery. They spoke of her as of a woman who had lost
all human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortunes she was
drawing down on her head.
I had told Brigitte that it was best to let them talk and pay no
attention to them; but the truth is, it became insupportable to me. I
sometimes tried to catch a word that I might consider an insult and
demand an explanation. I listened to whispered conversations in a salon
where I was a visitor, but could hear nothing; in order to do us better
justice, they waited until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte and told
her that all these stories were mere nonsense, that it was foolish to
notice them; that they could talk about us as much as they pleased and we
would care nothing about it.
Was I not terribly mistaken? If Brigitte was imprudent, was it not my
place to be cautious and ward off danger? On the contrary, I took, so to
speak, the part of the world against her.
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