“What, my darling! you are weeping!  Your tears make me miserable.  You ought not to have shed any with me but tears of happiness and love.  Quick, my beloved, tell me whether you have made me wretched.  Tell me what fearful revenge you have taken on me, who would rather die than offend you.  If I have caused you any sorrow, it has been in the innocence of a loving and devoted heart.”

“My own darling angel, I never thought of revenge, for my heart, which can never cease to adore you, could never conceive such a dreadful idea.  It is against my own heart that my cowardly weakness has allured me to the commission of a crime which, for the remainder of my life, makes me unworthy of you.”

“Have you, then, given yourself to some wretched woman?”

“Yes, I have spent two hours in the vilest debauchery, and my soul was present only to be the witness of my sadness, of my remorse, of my unworthiness.”

“Sadness and remorse!  Oh, my poor friend!  I believe it.  But it is my fault; I alone ought to suffer; it is I who must beg you to forgive me.”

Her tears made mine flow again.

“Divine soul,” I said, “the reproaches you are addressing to yourself increase twofold the gravity of my crime.  You would never have been guilty of any wrong against me if I had been really worthy of your love.”

I felt deeply the truth of my words.

We spent the remainder of the day apparently quiet and composed, concealing our sadness in the depths of our hearts.  She was curious to know all the circumstances of my miserable adventure, and, accepting it as an expiation, I related them to her.  Full of kindness, she assured me that we were bound to ascribe that accident to fate, and that the same thing might have happened to the best of men.  She added that I was more to be pitied than condemned, and that she did not love me less.  We both were certain that we would seize the first favourable opportunity, she of obtaining her pardon, I of atoning for my crime, by giving each other new and complete proofs of our mutual ardour.  But Heaven in its justice had ordered differently, and I was cruelly punished for my disgusting debauchery.

On the third day, as I got up in the morning, an awful pricking announced the horrid state into which the wretched Melulla had thrown me.  I was thunderstruck!  And when I came to think of the misery which I might have caused if, during the last three days, I had obtained some new favour from my lovely mistress, I was on the point of going mad.  What would have been her feelings if I had made her unhappy for the remainder of her life!  Would anyone, then, knowing the whole case, have condemned me if I had destroyed my own life in order to deliver myself from everlasting remorse?  No, for the man who kills himself from sheer despair, thus performing upon himself the execution of the sentence he would have deserved at the hands of justice cannot be blamed either by a virtuous philosopher or by a tolerant Christian.  But of one thing I am quite certain:  if such a misfortune had happened, I should have committed suicide.