leprosy of a selfish nature.  Like one under the influence of nightmare, who knows he does but dream and makes an effort fruitless as imaginary to lift himself out of it, I did try to follow what my heart said I should do,—­fold my dear wife in my arms, and reassure her in all things.  But I did no such thing.  The other spirit—­I should say seven others more hateful and detestable than any which had before possession of me—­conquered.  I raised Eudora from her kneeling posture.  I placed her on the sofa beside me.  I began to hate her,—­to hate her for her goodness, her gentleness, her truthfulness, her fidelity,—­to hate her because she dared make such an avowal, and because it was true.  What right had she to permit her feelings to be influenced by another,—­she, my lawfully wedded wife?  I would not admit the truth to myself that I was the sole, miserable, detestable cause.  Oh, no!

“Eudora,” I said at length, “I have never seen you manifest so much nervous excitement.  Do you not see how ridiculous is your request?  You want me to bring ridicule, not to say disgrace, on myself, by suddenly forbidding Alphonse my house.  What will he suppose, what will the world think, except that there has been some extraordinary cause for such a procedure?  And all out of a silly, romantic, imaginary notion which has got into your head.  Now, listen:  if you would do your duty and honor me, let Alphonse come and go as usual; let him perceive no difference in your manner or in your treatment of him:  in this way only I shall escape mortification and chagrin.”

She rose as I finished,—­slowly rose,—­with a countenance disheartened and despairing.  She uttered no word, and turned slowly to leave the room.  She had reached the door, when, not content with the merciless outrage on her heart already inflicted, under the instigation of the demon working within me, I prepared another stab.

“Eudora,” I said, “one word more.”

She came immediately back, doubtless with a slight hope that I would show some sympathy for her.

“Eudora,” I continued, rising and laying my hand on her shoulder, "have you permitted any improper familiarities from Alphonse?"

Quick as lightning was my hand struck from its resting-place; swift as thought her face changed to an expression so terrible that instinctively I stepped back to avoid her.  It was but an instant.  Then came a last awful look of recognition, whereby I knew I was found out, my soul was stripped of all hypocritical coverings, and she saw and understood me.  What a scene!  To discover in the one she had revered and worshipped so long her moral assassin!  To stand face to face and have the dreadful truth suddenly revealed!  The darkness of despair gathered around her brow; an agony, like that which finds no comforter, was stamped on her face; and with these a hate, a horror, a contempt, mingled triumphantly.  The door opened,—­it was closed,—­and my wife was lost to me forever.  I essayed to call her back.  “Eudora” came faintly to my lips.  It was too late.  Then a contemptible, jealous hatred took possession of me.  Ere I left my apartment, I said, “She shall pay dear for this! she shall soon come submissive to my feet! she cannot live away from me; and before I forgive, she must be humiliated!” How little did I know her!