times suddenly grow cold, just as the violence of my passion was ready
to break out. Her countenance would then express nothing but patient
curiosity and an unswerving resolve to read to the bottom of my soul
without letting me see even the surface of her own.

My sufferings, though acute, were dear to me at first; it pleased me to
think that I was secretly offering them to Edmee as an expiation of my
past faults. I hoped that she would perceive this and be satisfied with
me. She saw it, and said nothing. My agony grew more intense; but still
some days passed before I lost all power to hide it. I say days, because
whoever has loved a woman, and has been much alone with her, yet always
kept in check by her severity, must have found days like centuries. How
full life seemed and yet how consuming! What languor and unrest! What
tenderness and rage! It was as though the hours were years; and at this
very day, if I did not bring in dates to rectify the error of my memory,
I could easily persuade myself that these two months filled half my
life.

Perhaps, too, I should like to persuade myself of this, in order to find
some excuse for the foolish and culpable conduct into which I fell in
spite of all the good resolutions which I had but lately formed. The
relapse was so sudden and complete that I should still blush at the
thought, if I had not cruelly atoned for it, as you will soon see.

After a night of agony, I wrote her an insane letter which came nigh to
producing terrible consequences for me; it was somewhat as follows:

"You do not love me, Edmee; you will never love me. I know this; I
ask for nothing, I hope for nothing. I would only remain near you and
consecrate my life to your service and defence. To be useful to you