Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Epilogue
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the flood of her golden hair waved and curled; her
transparent nightgown had slipped off her shoulders, and her
virginal bosom gleamed white under the lace insertion;
the soft, red-and-white striped coverlet betrayed the
swelling curves of her graceful, fragile body, leaving her
bare feet uncovered—tiny arched feet with rosy toes and
transparent flawless nails—a genuine work of art, perfect,
fashioned in flesh after the model of an antique marble
statue: and this was my wife.
Light-hearted and smiling, with an expression of chaste
motherliness, she watched her three little ones as they
were climbing and tumbling about among the flowered
down pillows, as if on a heap of newly mown flowers.
The delightful spectacle softened me. But a
whispering doubt in my heart warned me: “Beware of the
she-panther playing with her cubs!”
Disarmed by the majesty of motherhood, I entered her
room with uncertain steps, timid as a schoolboy.
“Ah! You are up already, my dear,” she greeted me,
surprised, but not as pleased as one might have expected.
I stammered a confused reply, smothered by the
children, who had climbed on my back when I stooped to
kiss their mother.
Was it possible? Could she really be a criminal? I
pondered the question as I went away, subdued by her
chaste beauty, the candid smile of those lips which could
surely never have been tainted by a lie. No, a thousand
times no!...
I stole away, convinced of the contrary.
And yet doubt remained, doubt of everything: of my
wife’s constancy, my children’s legitimate birth, my
sanity; doubt which persecuted me, relentlessly and
unremittingly.
It was time to make an end, to arrest the flood of sterile
thoughts. If only I could have absolute certainty! A
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