I did not sleep that night, until the dawn began to separate each fir
tree from the black mass of the forest. Twice in the night, with shame
I confess it, I opened my door and looked down the little passage-way;
and twice I closed the door and threw myself upon my bed in an agony of
torment. It was ten o'clock when a knock at the door aroused me, and
the sunlight through the window-pane was tracing patterns on the floor.
There was a note on the breakfast table, but before I opened it I knew
that, save for Babette, I was alone in the house.
The note was brief, unaddressed and unsigned. I have it here before me;
I have meant to tear it up but I cannot. It is a weakness to keep it,
but I have lost so much in the last few days, that I will not grudge
myself some small relic of what has been. The note says:
"I am leaving for Bruges at half-past eight, when the car was ordered
to fetch us back. I go alone. Babette will give you breakfast. The car
will return for you at eleven o'clock. I rely on your honour in that
you will not observe where you have been. Come to me when you want
me--till then, farewell."
It was as she said, and I honourably acceded to her request. This
afternoon just before lunch I arrived in Bruges, and since tea-time I
have tried to write down what has happened since I left the day before
yesterday. Oh! how could she do it, how can it be possible that she is
a woman like that? I could have sworn that she was not like this--and
yet how can I account for her life with the Colonel? There must be some
reason, but in Heaven's name, what?
Meanwhile I am to go to her when I want her! And that will be when I
can give her my name.
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