I hastened to the house. My
presence did not embarrass her. She received me as usual, throwing her
arms about my neck. I thought that my spies had deceived me; and I was
going to tell her all, when I saw upon the piano a buckskin glove, such
as are worn by soldiers. Not wishing a scene, and not knowing to what
excess my anger might carry me, I rushed out of the place without saying
a word. I have never seen her since. She wrote to me. I did not open her
letters. She attempted to force her way into my presence, but in vain;
my servants had orders that they dared not ignore."
Could this be the Count de Commarin, celebrated for his haughty
coldness, for his reserve so full of disdain, who spoke thus, who opened
his whole life without restrictions, without reserve? And to whom? To a
stranger.
But he was in one of those desperate states, allied to madness, when all
reflection leaves us, when we must find some outlet for a too powerful
emotion. What mattered to him this secret, so courageously borne for
so many years? He disburdened himself of it, like the poor man, who,
weighed down by a too heavy burden, casts it to the earth without
caring where it falls, nor how much it may tempt the cupidity of the
passers-by.
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