I tried to interrupt her.

“Allow me to continue,” she said; “the time has come when I must speak.  Let us see, why do you doubt me?  For six months, in thought, in body, and in soul, I have belonged to no one but you.  Of what do you dare suspect me?  Do you wish to set out for Switzerland?  I am ready, as you see.  Do you think you have a rival?  Send him a letter that I will sign and you will direct.  What are we doing?  Where are we going?  Let us decide.  Are we not always together?  Very well then, why would you leave me?  I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment.  It is necessary to have confidence in those we love.  Love is either good or bad:  if good, we must believe in it; if evil, we must cure ourselves of it.  All this, you see, is a game we are playing; but our hearts and our lives are the stakes, and it is horrible!  Do you wish to die?  That would perhaps be better.  Who am I that you should doubt me?”

She stopped before the glass.

“Who am I?” she repeated, “who am I?  Think of it.  Look at this face of mine.”

“Doubt thee!” she cried, addressing her own image; “poor, pale face, thou art suspected! poor, thin cheeks, poor, tired eyes, thou and thy tears are in disgrace.  Very well, put an end to thy suffering; let those kisses that have wasted thee close thy lids!  Descend into the cold earth, poor trembling body that can no longer support its own weight.  When thou art there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes in death.  O sorrowful spectre!  On the banks of what stream wilt thou wander and groan?  What fires devour thee?  Thou dreamest of a long journey and thou hast one foot in the grave!

“Die!  God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love.  Ah! what wealth of love has been awakened in thy heart!  Ah! what dreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast drunk!  What evil hast thou committed that there should be placed in thy breast a fever that consumes!  What fury animates that blind creature who pushes thee into the grave with his foot, while his lips speak to thee of love?  What will become of you if you live?  Is it not time to end it all?  Is it not enough?  What proof canst thou give that will satisfy when thou, poor, living proof, art not believed?  To what torture canst thou submit that thou hast not already endured?  By what torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease insatiable love?  Thou wilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite laughter; thou wilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the finger of scorn.  Thou wilt lose all shame and even that appearance of virtue which has been so dear to you; and the man for whom you have disgraced yourself will be the first to punish you.  He will reproach you for living for him alone, for braving the world for him, and while your friends are whispering about you, he will listen to assure himself that no word of pity is spoken; he will accuse you of deceiving him if another hand even then presses yours, and if, in the desert of life, you find some one who can spare you a word of pity in passing.