in the distance the summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of
Lombardy. Already oblivion, repose, travel, all the delights of happy
solitude invited us; already, when in the evening with joined hands, we
looked at each other in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment
of strange grandeur which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a
long journey, the mysterious and indescribable vertigo which has in it
something of the terrors of exile and the hopes of pilgrimage. Are there
not in the human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that
vibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in
the simple words: "All is ready, we are about to go"?

Suddenly Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head in silence. When I
asked her whether she was in pain, she said "No!" in a voice that was
scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and
resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she
was going to be happy, and that I would consecrate my life to her, she
shut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her she turned pale,
and averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her that
nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our plans,
she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me and told
her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her arms about
my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as if involuntarily. Finally,
I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which our places were
marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached her and placed it in
her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed, and fell unconscious at my
feet.