I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times,
without knowing why I took such an interest in it.
There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not confess.
If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, had
he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand
while assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least
attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not, had he
shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I was
happy? But, while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte's sorrow, I saw
that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do
with her present state. If I had been what I ought to have been for the
last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was
persuaded, could have troubled our love. Smith was only an ordinary man,
but he was good and devoted, his simple and modest qualities resembled
the large, pure lines which the eye seized at the first glance; one
became acquainted with him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired
confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking that if he were
Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the ends of the
earth.
I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it.
Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day.
"Why do we wait?" she asked.
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