Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part IV - III
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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 271
sorry for her ; her longing for her friend, her suffering,
were unmistakable. It was a genuine instance of unhappy
love. She went for solitary walks in the woods, sang
love-songs, visited the favourite haunts of her friends,
exhibited every symptom of a wounded heart. I began
to entertain fears for her sanity. She was unhappy, and
I could not console her. She avoided my caresses, pushed
me aside when I tried to kiss her. My heart was full of
hatred for the woman Avho had robbed me of my wife’s
love. Perfectly unconscious of herself, Marie made no
secret of the identity of the person for whom she was
mourning. She talked of nothing but her love and her
sorrow. It was incredible !
The two friends carried on a brisk correspondence.
Infuriated with her indifference to me, I one day seized
one of her friend’s letters. It Avas a genuine love-letter.
" My darling, my little puss, my clever, delicate, tender,
noble-hearted Marie ; that coarse husband of yours is but
a stui:)id brute . .
."*
and so on. The letter further
suggested that she should leave me, and proposed ways
and means of escape. . . .
I stood up against my rival, and on the same evening
—oh, my God ! Marie and I fought in the moonshine.
She bit my hands, I dragged her to the river to drown
her like a kitten—when suddenly I saw a vision of my
children. It brought me to my senses.
I resolved to put an end to myself, but before doing
so I determined to write the story of my life.
The first part of the book was finished when the news
spread through the village that the Danish ladies had
engaged rooms.
I instantly had the trunks packed, and we left for
German Switzerland.
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