She held
my hand in hers; I kissed her; our lips met in loving union, and after
the cruel scene through which she had passed, she slept smiling on my
heart as on the first day.
CHAPTER VI
BRIGITTE slept. Silent, motionless, I sat near her. As a farmer, when the
storm has passed, counts the sheaves that remain in his devastated field,
thus I began to estimate the evil I had done.
The more I thought of it, the more irreparable I felt it to be. Certain
sorrows, by their very excess, warn us of their limits, and the more
shame and remorse I experienced, the more I felt that, after such a
scene, nothing remained for us to do but to say adieu. Whatever courage
Brigitte had shown, she had drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of her sad
love: unless I wished to see her die, I must give her repose. She had
often addressed cruel reproaches to me and had, perhaps, on certain other
occasions shown more anger than in this scene; but what she had said this
time was not dictated by offended pride; it was the truth, which, hidden
closely in her heart, had broken it in escaping. Our present relations,
and the fact that I had refused to go away with her, destroyed all hope;
she desired to pardon me but she had not the power. This slumber even,
this deathlike sleep of one who could suffer no more, was conclusive
evidence; this sudden silence, the tenderness she had shown in the final
moments, that pale face, and that kiss, confirmed me in the belief that
all was over, and that I had broken, forever, whatever bond had united
us.
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