One evening after supper, M. D——­ R——­ having retired, M. F——­ used no ceremony, and, although I was present, told his wife that he intended to pay her a visit after writing two letters which he had to dispatch early the next morning.  The moment he had left the room we looked at each other, and with one accord fell into each other’s arms.  A torrent of delights rushed through our souls without restraint, without reserve, but when the first ardour had been appeased, without giving me time to think or to enjoy the most complete, the most delicious victory, she drew back, repulsed me, and threw herself, panting, distracted, upon a chair near her bed.  Rooted to the spot, astonished, almost mad, I tremblingly looked at her, trying to understand what had caused such an extraordinary action.  She turned round towards me and said, her eyes flashing with the fire of love,

“My darling, we were on the brink of the precipice.”

“The precipice!  Ah! cruel woman, you have killed me, I feel myself dying, and perhaps you will never see me again.”

I left her in a state of frenzy, and rushed out, towards the esplanade, to cool myself, for I was choking.  Any man who has not experienced the cruelty of an action like that of Madame F——­, and especially in the situation I found myself in at that moment, mentally and bodily, can hardly realize what I suffered, and, although I have felt that suffering, I could not give an idea of it.

I was in that fearful state, when I heard my name called from a window, and unfortunately I condescended to answer.  I went near the window, and I saw, thanks to the moonlight, the famous Melulla standing on her balcony.

“What are you doing there at this time of night?” I enquired.

“I am enjoying the cool evening breeze.  Come up for a little while.”

This Melulla, of fatal memory, was a courtezan from Zamte, of rare beauty, who for the last four months had been the delight and the rage of all the young men in Corfu.  Those who had known her agreed in extolling her charms:  she was the talk of all the city.  I had seen her often, but, although she was very beautiful, I was very far from thinking her as lovely as Madame F——­, putting my affection for the latter on one side.  I recollect seeing in Dresden, in the year 1790, a very handsome woman who was the image of Melulla.

I went upstairs mechanically, and she took me to a voluptuous boudoir; she complained of my being the only one who had never paid her a visit, when I was the man she would have preferred to all others, and I had the infamy to give way....  I became the most criminal of men.

It was neither desire, nor imagination, nor the merit of the woman which caused me to yield, for Melulla was in no way worthy of me; no, it was weakness, indolence, and the state of bodily and mental irritation in which I then found myself:  it was a sort of spite, because the angel whom I adored had displeased me by a caprice, which, had I not been unworthy of her, would only have caused me to be still more attached to her.