They were bills of purchases she had made and some of
them were still unpaid. While examining them, she began to talk rapidly,
while her cheeks burned as though with fever. Then she asked my pardon
for her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival. She gave
evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. She clapped her
hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; in short, she was all
love, or at least apparently all love. I can not tell how I suffered at
the sight of that factitious joy; there was, in that grief which crazed
her, something more sad than tears and more bitter than reproaches. I
would have preferred to have her cold and indifferent rather than thus
excited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiest moments. There were the
same words, the same woman, the same caresses; and that which, fifteen
days before, would have intoxicated me with love and happiness, repeated
thus, filled me with horror.
"Brigitte," I suddenly inquired, "what secret are you concealing from me?
If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are playing before me?"
"I!" said she almost offended. "What makes you think I am playing?"
"What makes me think so? Tell me, my dear, that you have death in your
soul and that you are suffering martyrdom. Behold my arms are ready to
receive you; lean your head on me and weep. Then I will take you away,
perhaps; but in truth, not thus.
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