“The end is reached.  My hour is striking.  Put to sleep by me, Edmond is dead without having been roused from his unconsciousness by the fire of the poison.  My own death-agony is beginning.  I am suffering all the tortures of hell.  My hand can hardly write these last lines.  I suffer, how I suffer!  And yet my happiness is unspeakable.

“This happiness dates back to my visit to London, with Edmond, four months ago.  Until then, I was dragging on the most hideous existence, hiding my hatred of the woman who detested me and who loved another, broken down in health, feeling myself already eaten up with an unrelenting disease, and seeing my son grow daily more weak and languid.

“In the afternoon I consulted a great physician and I no longer had the least doubt left:  the malady that was eating into me was cancer.  And I knew besides that, like myself, my son Edmond was on the road to the grave, incurably stricken with consumption.

“That same evening I conceived the magnificent idea of revenge.  And such a revenge!  The most dreadful of accusations made against a man and a woman in love with each other!  Prison!  The assizes!  Penal servitude!  The scaffold!  And no assistance possible, not a struggle, not a hope!  Accumulated proofs, proofs so formidable as to make the innocent themselves doubt their own innocence and remain hopelessly and helplessly dumb.  What a revenge!...  And what a punishment!  To be innocent and to struggle vainly against the very facts that accuse you, the very certainty that proclaims you guilty.

“And I prepared everything with a glad heart.  Each happy thought, each invention made me shout with laughter.  Lord, how merry I was!  You would think that cancer hurts:  not a bit of it!  How can you suffer physical pain when your soul is quivering with delight?  Do you think I feel the hideous burning of the poison at this moment?

“I am happy.  The death which I have inflicted on myself is the beginning of their torment.  Then why live and wait for a natural death which to them would mean the beginning of their happiness?  And as Edmond had to die, why not save him a lingering illness and give him a death which would double the crime of Marie and Sauverand?

“The end is coming.  I had to break off:  the pain was too much for me.  Now to pull myself together....  How silent everything is!  Outside the house and in the house are emissaries of the police watching over my crime.  At no great distance, Marie, in obedience to my letter, is hurrying to the trysting place, where her beloved will not come.  And the beloved is roaming under the windows where his darling will not appear.

“Oh, the dear little puppets whose string I pull!  Dance!  Jump!  Skip!  Lord, what fun they are!  A rope round your neck, sir; and, madam, a rope round yours.  Was it not you, sir, who poisoned Inspector Verot this morning and followed him to the Cafe du Pont-Neuf, with your grand ebony walking-stick?  Why, of course it was!  And at night the pretty lady poisons me and poisons her stepson.  Prove it?  Well, what about this apple, madam, this apple which you did not bite into and which all the same will be found to bear the marks of your teeth?  What fun!  Dance!  Jump!  Skip!