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everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical
instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but
everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.
As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. On
the mantel, I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at
it, and he said it was his mother.
I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known him
since childhood. Before I came to the country, she used to see him
occasionally at N-----, but at the time of her last visit there he was
away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned some
particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest
employment that enabled him to support his sister and mother.
His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he deprived
himself of everything for them, but, although he possessed musical
talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the immediate
needs of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had always led
him to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of success in
larger ventures. In a word, he belonged to that small class who live
quietly, and who are worth more to the world than those who do not
appreciate them. I had learned of certain traits in his character which
will serve to paint the man: he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl
in the neighborhood, and, after a year of devotion to her, secured her
parents' consent to their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was
ready to be signed, the preparations for the wedding complete, when his
mother said:
"And your sister? Who will marry her?"
That simple remark made him understand that if he married, he would spend
all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have no
dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy
prospects; he then came to Paris.
When I heard that story, I wanted to see the hero. That simple,
unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the
glories of war.
The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach
the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me
that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually, my
thoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemed
to me that he was also examining me with curiosity.
We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!
He was accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the
clock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it which
lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy government
office; sending his mother all his savings--that farthing of human joy
which the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except for
the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had been
a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, so
inexorable, during that time, that with him was bathed in sweat, what had
I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?
What I have said in a page, can be comprehended in a glance. He spoke to
me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.
"When do you go?" he asked.
"I do not know; Madame Pierson is unwell and has been confined to her bed
for three days."
"For three days!" he repeated in surprise.
"Yes; why are you astonished?"
He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. He
was trembling violently.
"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to
his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to
speak, he said:
"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I have
sufficiently recovered, I will return your visit."
CHAPTER III
BRIGITTE was better. She had informed me that she wished to go away as
soon as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to
rest at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey.
Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured me
that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy and begged me to say
nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was passing in
her heart. We went to the theater every night in order to avoid
embarrassing tete-a-tetes. There, we sometimes pressed each other's hands
at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or exchanged,
perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were mute,
absorbed in our thoughts.
Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had been
the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had left
singular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and his
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