“The stress and agitation of those days were too much for me.  I fell ill, and for seven weeks lay utterly prostrate.  On recovering, this note was handed to me.  It was from Agalma.”

Bourgonef here held out to me a crumpled letter, and motioned that I should open it and read.  It ran thus: 

“I have thought much of what you have so often said, that it would be for the happiness of both if our unfortunate engagement were set aside.  That you have a real affection for me I believe, and be assured that I once had a real affection for you; not, perhaps, the passionate love which a nature so exacting as yours demands, and which I earnestly hope it may one day find, but a genuine affection nevertheless, which would have made me proud to share your lot.  But it would be uncandid in me to pretend that this now exists.  Your incessant jealousy, the angry feelings excited by your reproaches, the fretful irritation in which for some time we have lived together, has completely killed what love I had, and I no longer feel prepared to risk the happiness of both of us by a marriage.  What you said the other night convinces me that it is even your desire our engagement should cease.  It is certainly mine.  Let us try to think kindly of each other and meet again as friends.

Agalma Liebenstein.”

When I had read this and returned it to him, he said: 

“You see that this was written on the day I was taken ill.  Whether she knew that I was helpless I know not.  At any rate, she never sent to inquire after me.  She went off to Paris; Korinski followed her; and—­as I quickly learned on going once more into society—­ they were married!  Did you ever, in the whole course of your experience, hear of such heartless conduct?”

Bourgonef asked this with a ferocity which quite startled me.  I did not answer him; for, in truth, I could not see that Agalma had been very much to blame, even as he told the story, and felt sure that could I have heard her version it would have worn a very different aspect.  That she was cold, and disappointed him, might be true enough, but there was no crime; and I perfectly understood how thoroughly odious he must have made himself to her by his exactions and reproaches.  I understood this, perhaps, all the better, because in the course of his narrative Bourgonef had revealed to me aspects of his nature which were somewhat repulsive.  Especially was I struck with his morbid vanity, and his readiness to impute low motives to others.  This unpleasant view of his character—­a character in many respects so admirable for its generosity and refinement—­was deepened as he went on, instead of awaiting my reply to his question.

“For a wrong so measureless, you will naturally ask what measureless revenge I sought.”

The idea had not occurred to me; indeed I could see no wrong, and this notion of revenge was somewhat startling in such a case.