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42 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
I suffered through her as if she were a diseased organ
grafted on my sick soul, which had itself become too
blunted and dull to sense the pleasure of exquisite pain.
And Avhat had she done that I should deprive her of
my sympathy? In a moment of jealousy she had com-
plained to me of her unhappy marriage. And I had
repulsed her, I had spoken harshly to her, when I ought
to have reasoned with her ; it would not have been an
impossible task, for hadn’t her husband told me that she
allowed him every licence?
I was seized with an immense compassion for her ; no
doubt, in her soul lay, shrouded in profound mystery,
fateful secrets, physical and psychical aberrations. It
seemed to me that I should be guilty of a terrible wrong
if I let her come to ruin. When my depression had
reached its climax I began a letter to her, asking her to
forgive me. I begged her to forget what had happened,
and tried to explain the painful incident by a misunder-
standing on my part. But the words would not come,
my pen refused to obey me. Worn out with fatigue,
I threw myself on my bed.
The following morning was warm and cloudy, a typical
August morning. At eight o’clock I went to the library,
melancholy and depressed. As I had a key, I was able
to let myself in and spend three hours in perfect solitude
before the general public began to arrive. I wandered
through the passages, between rows of books on either
side, in that exquisite solitude which is not loneliness, in
close communion with the great thinkers of all times.
Taking out a volume here and there, I tried to fix my
mind on some definite subject in order to forget the
painful scene of yesterday. But I could not banish the
desecrated image of the fallen Madonna from my mind.
When I raised my eyes from the pages, which I had read
without understanding a word, I seemed to see her, as in
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