A day or two after our arrival in Munich a reaction began steadily to set in.  Ashamed as I was of my suspicions, I could not altogether banish from my mind the incident which had awakened them.  The image of that false beard would mingle with my thoughts.  I was vaguely uncomfortable at the idea of Bourgonef’s carrying about with him obvious materials of disguise.  In itself this would have had little significance; but coupled with the fact that his devoted servant was—­in spite of all Bourgonef’s eulogies—­ repulsively ferocious in aspect, capable, as I could not help believing, of any brutality,—­the suggestion was unpleasant.  You will understand that having emphatically acquitted Bourgonef in my mind, I did not again distinctly charge him with any complicity in the mysterious murder; on the contrary, I should indignantly have repelled such a thought; but the uneasy sense of some mystery about him, coupled with the accessories of disguise, and the aspect of the servant, gave rise to dim, shadowy forebodings which ever and anon passed across my mind.

Did it ever occur to you, reader, to reflect on the depths of deceit which lie still and dark even in the honestest minds?  Society reposes on a thin crust of convention, underneath which lie fathomless possibilities of crime, and consequently suspicions of crime.  Friendship, however close and dear, is not free from its reserves, unspoken beliefs, more or less suppressed opinions.  The man whom you would indignantly defend against any accusation brought by another, so confident are you in his unshakable integrity, you may yourself momentarily suspect of crimes far exceeding those which you repudiate.  Indeed, I have known sagacious men hold that perfect frankness in expressing the thoughts is a sure sign of imperfect friendship; something is always suppressed; and it is not he who loves you that “tells you candidly what he thinks” of your person, your pretensions, your children, or your poems.  Perfect candor is dictated by envy, or some other unfriendly feeling, making friendship a stalking-horse, under cover of which it shoots the arrow which will rankle.  Friendship is candid only when the candor is urgent—­meant to avert impending danger or to rectify an error.  The candor which is an impertinence never springs from friendship.  Love is sympathetic.

I do not, of course, mean to intimate that my feeling for Bourgonef was of that deep kind which justifies the name of friendship.  I only want to say that in our social relations we are constantly hiding from each other, under the smiles and courtesies of friendly interest, thoughts which, if expressed, would destroy all possible communion—­and that, nevertheless, we are not insincere in our smiles and courtesies; and therefore there is nothing paradoxical in my having felt great admiration for Bourgonef, and great pleasure in his society, while all the time there was deep down in the recesses of my thoughts an uneasy sense of a dark mystery which possibly connected him with a dreadful crime.