Nevertheless, about me there was still something of youth:  it was the hope of my heart, which was still childlike.

That hope, which nothing had withered or corrupted and which love had exalted to excess, had now received a mortal wound.  The perfidy of my mistress had struck deep, and when I thought of it, I felt in my soul a swooning away, the convulsive flutter of a wounded bird in agony.

Society, which works so much evil, is like that serpent of the Indies whose habitat is under a shrub, the leaves of which afford the antidote to its venom; in nearly every case it brings the remedy with the wound it causes.  For example, the man whose life is one of routine, who has his business cares to claim his attention upon rising, visits at one hour, loves at another, can lose his mistress and suffer no evil effects.  His occupations and his thoughts are like impassive soldiers ranged in line of battle; a single shot strikes one down, his neighbors close the gap and the line is intact.

I had not that resource, since I was alone:  nature, the kind mother, seemed, on the contrary, vaster and more empty than before.  Had I been able to forget my mistress, I should have been saved.  How many there are who can be cured with even less than that.  Such men are incapable of loving a faithless woman, and their conduct, under the circumstances, is admirable in its firmness.  But is it thus one loves at nineteen when, knowing nothing of the world, desiring everything, one feels, within, the germ of all the passions?  Everywhere some voice appeals to him.  All is desire, all is revery.  There is no reality which holds him when the heart is young; there is no oak so gnarled that it may not give birth to a dryad; and if one had a hundred arms one need not fear to open them; one has but to clasp his mistress and all is well.

As for me, I did not understand what else there was to do but love, and when any one spoke to me of other occupations I did not reply.  My passion for my mistress had something fierce about it, for all my life had been severely monachal.  Let me cite a single instance.  She gave me her miniature in a medallion.  I wore it over my heart, a practice much affected by men; but one day, while idly rummaging about a shop filled with curiosities, I found an iron “discipline whip” such as was used by the mediaeval flagellants.  At the end of this whip was a metal plate bristling with sharp iron points; I had the medallion riveted to this plate and then returned it to its place over my heart.  The sharp points pierced my bosom with every movement and caused such strange, voluptuous anguish that I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in order to intensify the sensation.  I knew very well that I was committing a folly; love is responsible for many such idiocies.

But since this woman deceived me I loathed the cruel medallion.  I can not tell with what sadness I removed that iron circlet, and what a sigh escaped me when it was gone.