you, will always recall me to a sense of duty, and this duty will be
sweet when you deign to remind me of it. As I write to you, Edmee, the
sky is full of clouds that are darker and heavier than lead; the thunder
is rumbling, and doleful ghosts of purgatory seem to be floating in
the glare of the lightning. The weight of the storm lies on my soul; my
bewildered mind quivers like the flashes which leap from the firmament.
It seems as if my whole being were about to burst like the tempest. Ah,
could I but lift up to you a voice like unto its voice! Had I the power
to lay bare the agonies and passions which rend me within! Often, when a
storm has been sweeping over the great oaks above, you have told me
that you enjoy gazing upon the fury of the one and the resistance of the
other. This, you say, is a battle of mighty forces; and in the din in
the air you fancy you can detect the curses of the north wind and the
mournful cries of the venerable branches. Which suffers the more, Edmee,
the tree which resists, or the wind which exhausts itself in the attack?
Is it not always the wind that yields and falls? And then the sky,
grieved at the defeat of her noble son, sheds a flood of tears upon
the earth. You love these wild images, Edmee; and whenever you behold
strength vanquished by resistance you smile cruelly, and there is a look
in your inscrutable eyes that seems to insult my misery. Well, you have
cast me to the ground, and, though shattered, I still suffer; yes,
learn this, since you wish to know it, since you are merciless enough
to question me and to feign compassion. I suffer, and I no longer try
to remove the foot which the proud conqueror has placed on my broken
heart."

The rest of this letter, which was very long, very rambling and absurd
from beginning to end, was in the same strain. It was not the first time
that I had written to Edmee, though I lived under the same roof, and
never left her except during the hours of rest. My passion possessed me