“Do not think that I do not understand your heart or that I would reproach you for what you make me suffer.  It is not your fault, my friend, if you have not the power to forget your past life; you have loved me in good faith and I shall never regret, although I should die for it, the day I gave myself to you.  You thought you were entering upon a new life, and that with me you would forget the women who had deceived you.  Alas!  Octave, I used to smile at that precocious experience which you said you had been through, and of which I heard you boast like a child who knows nothing of life.  I thought I had but to will it, and all that there was that was good in your heart would come to your lips with my first kiss.  You, too, believed it, but we were both mistaken.

“Oh, my child!  You have in your heart a plague that can not be cured; that woman who deceived you, how you must have loved her!  Yes, more than you love me, alas! much more, since with all my poor love I can not efface her image; she must have deceived you most cruelly, since it is in vain that I am faithful!

“And the others, those wretches who then poisoned your youth!  The pleasures they sold must have been terrible since you ask me to imitate them!  You remember them with me!  Alas! my dear child, that is too cruel.  I like you better when you are unjust and furious, when you reproach me for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you by others, than when you are under the influence of that frightful gayety, when you assume that air of hideous mockery, when that mask of scorn affronts my eyes.

“Tell me, Octave, why that?  Why those moments when you speak of love with contempt and rail at the most sacred mysteries of love?  What frightful power over your irritable nerves has that life you have led, that such insults should mount to your lips in spite of you?  Yes, in spite of you; for your heart is noble, you blush at your own blasphemy; you love me too much, not to suffer when you see me suffer.  Ah!  I know you now.  The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with a feeling of terror of which I can give you no idea.  I thought you were only a roue, that you had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did not feel, and that I saw you such as you really were.  O my friend!  I thought it was time to die; what a night I passed!  You do not know my life; you do not know that I who speak to you have had an experience as terrible as yours.  Alas! life is sweet only to those who do not know life.

“You are not, my dear Octave, the only man I have loved.  There is hidden in my heart a fatal story that I wish you to know.  My father destined me, when I was quite young, for the only son of an old friend.  They were neighbors and each owned a little domain of almost equal value.  The two families saw each other every day, and lived, so to speak, together.  My father died; my mother had been dead some time.  I lived with the aunt whom you know.  A journey she was compelled to take forced her to confide me to the care of my future father-in-law.  He called me his daughter, and it was so well known about the country that I was to marry his son that we were allowed the greatest liberty together.