My sufferings, though acute, were dear to me at first; it pleased me to think that I was secretly offering them to Edmee as an expiation of my past faults.  I hoped that she would perceive this and be satisfied with me.  She saw it, and said nothing.  My agony grew more intense; but still some days passed before I lost all power to hide it.  I say days, because whoever has loved a woman, and has been much alone with her, yet always kept in check by her severity, must have found days like centuries.  How full life seemed and yet how consuming!  What languor and unrest!  What tenderness and rage!  It was as though the hours were years; and at this very day, if I did not bring in dates to rectify the error of my memory, I could easily persuade myself that these two months filled half my life.

Perhaps, too, I should like to persuade myself of this, in order to find some excuse for the foolish and culpable conduct into which I fell in spite of all the good resolutions which I had but lately formed.  The relapse was so sudden and complete that I should still blush at the thought, if I had not cruelly atoned for it, as you will soon see.

After a night of agony, I wrote her an insane letter which came nigh to producing terrible consequences for me; it was somewhat as follows: 

“You do not love me, Edmee; you will never love me.  I know this; I ask for nothing, I hope for nothing.  I would only remain near you and consecrate my life to your service and defence.  To be useful to you I will do all that my strength will allow; but I shall suffer, and, however I try to hide it, you will see it; and perhaps you will attribute to wrong causes the sadness I may not be able to suppress with uniform heroism.  You pained me deeply yesterday, when you advised me to go out a little ‘to distract my thoughts.’  To distract my thoughts from you, Edmee!  What bitter mockery!  Do not be cruel, sister; for then you become my haughty betrothed of evil days again . . . and, in spite of myself, I again become the brigand whom you used to hate. . . .  Ah, if you knew how unhappy I am!  In me there are two men who are incessantly waging a war to the death.  It is to be hoped that the brigand will fall; but he defends himself step by step, and he cries aloud because he feels himself covered with wounds and mortally stricken.  If you knew, Edmee, if you only knew what struggles, what conflicts, rend my bosom; what tears of blood my heart distils; and what passions often rage in that part of my nature which the rebel angels rule!  There are nights when I suffer so much that in the delirium of my dreams I seem to be plunging a dagger into your heart, and thus, by some sombre magic, to be forcing you to love me as I love you.  When I awake, in a cold sweat, bewildered, beside myself, I feel tempted to go and kill you, so as to destroy the cause of my anguish.  If I refrain from this, it is because I fear that I should love you dead with as much passion and tenacity