CHAPTER III

THE QUESTION OF SMITH

Brigitte was better. She had told me that she desired 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 theatre every night in order to
avoid embarrassing interviews. 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
simplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he had
brought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorant
of the contents, and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure them
severely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, had he known
what they contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in his
presence, I did not think he was in her confidence.