He spoke to
me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.
"When do you go?" he asked.
"I do not know; Madame Pierson is unwell and has been confined to her bed
for three days."
"For three days!" he repeated in surprise.
"Yes; why are you astonished?"
He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. He
was trembling violently.
"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to
his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to
speak, he said:
"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I have
sufficiently recovered, I will return your visit."
CHAPTER III
BRIGITTE was better. She had informed me that she wished to go away as
soon as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to
rest at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey.
Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured me
that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy and begged me to say
nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was passing in
her heart. We went to the theater every night in order to avoid
embarrassing tete-a-tetes. There, we sometimes pressed each other's hands
at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or exchanged,
perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were mute,
absorbed in our thoughts.
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