“And you do not believe yourself guilty?” I demanded, with horror.  “O novice of yesterday, how corrupt art thou today!  Because you weep, you fondly imagine yourself innocent?  What you consider the evidence of your conscience is only remorse; and what murderer does not experience it?  If your virtue cries out, is it not because it feels the approach of death?  O wretch! those far-off voices that you hear groaning in your heart, do you think they are sobs?  They are perhaps only the cry of the sea-mew, that funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence portends shipwreck.  Who has ever told the story of the childhood of those who have died stained with human blood?  They, also, have been good in their day; they sometimes bury their faces in their hands and think of those happy days.  You do evil, and you repent?  Nero did the same when he killed his mother.  Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt?

“And even if it were true that a part of your soul is not devoted to evil forever, what will you do with the other part that is not yours?  You will touch with your left hand the wounds that you inflict with your right; you will make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes; you will strike, and like Brutus you will engrave on your sword the prattle of Plato!  Into the heart of the being who opens her arms to you, you will plunge that blood-stained but repentant arm; you will follow to the cemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant on her grave the sterile flower of your pity.  You will say to those who see you ’What could you expect?  I have learned how to kill, and observe that I already, weep; learn that God made me better than you see me.’  You will speak of your youth, and you will persuade yourself that heaven ought to pardon you, that your misfortunes are involuntary, and you will implore sleepless nights to grant you a little repose.

“But who knows?  You are still young.  The more you trust in your heart, the farther astray you will be led by your pride.  To-day you stand before the first ruin you are going to leave on your route.  If Brigitte dies to-morrow you will weep on her tomb; where will you go when you leave her?  You will go away for three months perhaps, and you will travel in Italy; you will wrap your cloak about you like a splenetic Englishman, and you will say some beautiful morning, sitting in your inn with your glasses before you, that it is time to forget in order to live again.

“You who weep too late, take care lest you weep more than one day.  Who knows?  When the present which makes you shudder shall have become the past, an old story, a confused memory, may it not happen some night of debauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smile on your lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes?  It is thus that one drinks away shame.  You have begun by being good, you will become weak, and you will become a monster.