As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that I
felt under obligations to call on him after all the visits he had made
us; I had not said a word about my experience at the Opera. Brigitte's
eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room she held out her
hand, and said:
"What do you wish?"
Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words and I set out
less unhappy.
The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was living
near by. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation of
uneasiness; I was dazed, as though by a sudden flash of light. His first
gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent Brigitte
had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held out his
hand and said:
"What do you wish?"
Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which the reason
can not explain. I sat still, as though awakened from a dream, and began
to repeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could I
tell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me,
how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N-----, and
knew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to question
him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our first words
were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness in bringing
letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving France we would
ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent, surprised
to find ourselves vis-a-vis.
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