Here I am in Paris, gloomy, with nothing to do, not knowing how to fill up the void in my life, discontented with myself, ridiculous in my own eyes, alike in my love and in my despair.  I have never felt so sad, so wretched, so cast-down.  My days and nights are passed in endless self-accusation:  one by one I revise every word and action relating to Louise Guerin.  I compose superb sentences which I had forgotten to pronounce, the effect of which would have been irresistible.  I tell myself:  “On such a day, you were guilty of a stupid timidity, which would have made even a college-boy laugh.”  It was the moment for daring.  Louise, unseen, threw you a look which you were too stupid to understand.  The evening that Madame Taverneau was at Rouen, you allowed yourself to be intimidated like a fool, by a few grand airs, an affectation of virtue over which the least persistence would have triumphed.  Your delicacy ruined you.  A little roughness doesn’t hurt sometimes, especially with prudes.  You have not profited by a single one of your advantages; you let every opportunity pass.  In short, I am like a general who has lost a battle, and who, having retired to his tent, in the midst of a field strewn with the dead and the dying marks out, too late, a strategic plan which would have infallibly gained him the victory!

What a pitiless monster an unsatiated desire is, tearing your heart with its sharp claws and piercing beak for want of other prey!  The punishment of Prometheus pales beside it, for the arrows of Hercules cannot reach this unseen vulture!  This is my first unsuccessful love; the first falcon that has returned to me without bringing the dove in his talons; I am devoured by an inexpressible rage; I pace my room like a wild beast, uttering inarticulate cries; I do not know whether I love or hate Louise the most, but I should take infinite delight in strangling her with her blonde tresses and trampling her, affrighted and suppliant, under my feet.

My good Roger, I weary you with my lamentations; but whom can we weary, if not our friends?  When will you return to Paris?  Soon, I hope, since you have ceased writing to me.

I have gone back to the lady with the turban, passing nearly every evening in the catafalque, which she calls her drawing-room.  This lugubrious habitation suits my melancholy.  She finds me more gloomy, more Giaour-like, more Lara-like than usual; I am her hero, her god! or rather her demon, for she has now taken to the sorceries of the satanic school!  I assure you that she annoys me inexpressibly, and yet I feel a sort of pleasure in being admired by her.  It consoles my vanity for Louise’s disdain, but not my heart.  Alas! my poor heart, which still bleeds and suffers.  I caught a glimpse of Paradise through a half-open door.  The door is shut, and I weep upon the threshold!

If Louise were dead, I might be calm; but she exists, and not for me—­that thought makes life insupportable.  I can think of nothing else, and I scarcely know whether the words I write to you make any sense.  I leave my letter unfinished.  I will finish it this evening if I can succeed in diverting myself, for a moment, from this despair which possesses me.