The sharp
points pierced my bosom with every movement and caused such a strange
voluptuous anguish that I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in order
to intensify the sensation. I knew very well that I was committing folly;
love is responsible for many others.
When that woman deceived me I removed the cruel medallion. I can not tell
with what sadness I detached that iron girdle and what a sigh escaped me
when it was gone.
"Ah! poor wounds!" I said, "you will soon heal, but what balm is there
for that other deeper wound?"
I had reason to hate that woman, she was, so to speak, mingled with the
blood of my veins; I cursed her but I dreamed of her. What could I do
with a dream? By what effort of the will could I drown memory of flesh
and blood? Macbeth having killed Duncan saw that the ocean would not wash
his hands clean again; it would not have washed away my wounds. I said to
Desgenais: "When I sleep, her head is on my pillow."
My life had been wrapped up in that woman; to doubt her was to doubt all;
to deny her, to curse all; to lose her, to renounce all. I no longer went
out; the world seemed to be peopled with monsters, with horned deer and
crocodiles. To all that was said to distract my mind I replied:
"Yes, that is all very well, but you may rest assured I shall do nothing
of the kind."
I sat in my window and said:
"She will come, I am sure of it, she is coming, she is turning the corner
at this moment, I can feel her approach.
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