But strange as it may seem, I felt neither anger nor jealousy, but a
terrible sense of sorrow and foreboding. I did not suspect, and yet, I
doubted. The mind of man is so strangely formed that, with what he sees,
and in spite of what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred objects of woe.
In truth, his brain resembles the dungeons of the Inquisition whose walls
are covered with so many instruments of torture, that one is dazed and
asks whether these horrible contrivances he sees before him are pincers
or playthings. Tell me, I say, what difference is there in saying to my
mistress: "All women deceive," or, "You deceive me?"
What passed through my mind was perhaps as subtle as the finest
sophistry; it was a sort of dialogue between the mind and the conscience.
"If I should lose Brigitte?" I said to the mind.--"She departs with you,"
said the conscience.--"If she deceives me?"--"How can she deceive you?
Has she not made out her will asking for prayers for you?"--"If Smith
loves her?"--"Fool! What does it matter so long as you know that she
loves you?"--"If she loves me, why is she sad?"--"That is her secret,
respect it."--"If I take her away with me, will she be happy?"--"Love her
and she will be."--"Why, when that man looks at her, does she seem to
fear to meet his glance?"--"Because she is a woman and he is
young."--"Why does that young man turn pale when she looks at
him?"--"Because he is a man and she is beautiful.
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