meeting, it is resumed; when parted, it is forgotten.

If that man comes here this summer, she will probably see him without
breaking with me. Who is this aunt, what mysterious life is this that
has charity for its cloak, this liberty that cares nothing for opinion?
May they not be adventurers, these two women with their little house,
their prudence, and their caution, which enable them to impose on people
so easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have fallen into an affair of
gallantry when I thought I was engaged in a romance. But what can I do?
There is no one here who can help me except the priest, who does not care
to tell me what he knows, and his uncle, who will say still less. Who
will save me? How can I learn the truth?

Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that I had
suffered, I had come at the end of two days to a point where I was
tormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily.
Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to dispute
with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love.

While absorbed in these reflections I was slowly approaching Madame
Pierson's.

I found the gate open, and as I entered the garden I saw a light in the
kitchen. I thought of questioning the servant, I stepped to the window.

A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot. The servant was an old woman,
thin and wrinkled and bent, a common deformity in people who have worked
in the fields. I found her shaking a cooking. utensil over a filthy
sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her were
pots, kettles, and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed at,