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falsehood of my supposed infidelity, I ask for
forgiveness, and before I am aware of it, I write
again a love-letter to my wife. But I postpone
our meeting to a more favourable time.
The next morning I hasten to my chemist on
the Boulevard Magenta, and bring his analysis
of my powder in a closed cover back to the
hospital. When I come to the statue of St. Louis
in the courtyard of the institution, I think of
the Quinze-Vingt [1], the Sorbonne, and the Sainte
Chapelle, these three buildings founded by the
Saint, which I interpret to mean—“From
suffering, through knowledge, to repentance.”
Arrived at my room, I shut the doors carefully,
and at last open the paper which is to
decide my destiny. The contents are as
follows: “The powder submitted to our analysis
has three properties—Colour: grey-black, leaves
marks on paper. Density: very great, greater
than the average density of graphite; it seems
to be a harder kind of graphite. The powder
burns easily, releasing oxide of carbon and
carbonic acid. It therefore contains carbon.”
Pure sulphur contains carbon!
I am saved. From henceforth I can prove to
my friends and relations that I am no fool. I
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