Not over a month ago, I would
have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect Brigitte?
Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going away
with me? Even if it were possible that Smith could be in some secret of
which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of that mystery? What was
there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship? She had
known him as a child; she met him again, after long years, just as she
was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate situation,
and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding to her
sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful glances,
that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and regrets?
Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long journey,
proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions? I felt that
this must be the explanation and that it was my duty to assure them that
I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of requiting
the other for the services he had rendered. And yet, a deadly sense of
coldness oppressed me and I could not determine what course to pursue.
When Smith left us in the evening, we either kept silence or talked of
him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him
continually. She, however, told me just what I have told the reader; his
life had never been other than it was at this time, poor, obscure and
honest.
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