"Brigitte," I said, "tell me adieu. I shall carry this box away with me;
you will forget me, and you will live if you wish to save me from
becoming a murderer. I will set out this very night; you will agree with
me that God demands it. Give me a last kiss."
I bent over her and kissed her forehead.
"Not yet," she cried in anguish. But I repulsed her and left the room.
Three hours later I was ready to set out, and the horses were at the
door. It was still raining when I entered the carriage. At the moment the
carriage was starting, I felt two arms about my neck and a sob on my
breast.
It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade her to remain; I ordered
the driver to stop; I even told her that I would return to her when time
should have effaced the memory of the wrongs I had done her. I forced
myself to prove to her that yesterday was the same as to-day, to-day as
yesterday; I repeated that I could only render her unhappy, that to
attach herself to me was but to make an assassin of me. I resorted to
prayers, to vows, to threats even; her only reply was, "You are going
away, take me, let us take leave of the country, let us take leave of the
past. We can not live here, let us go elsewhere, wherever you please, let
us go and die together in some remote corner of the world. We must be
happy, I by you, you by me."
I kissed her with such passion that I feared my heart would burst.
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