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the window. The two thieves walk up and down
with their wives and children, and embrace each
other from time to time with joyful faces, like
men whom misfortune draws together in closer
bonds.
My loneliness depresses me; I curse my lot
and regard it as unjust, without considering that
my crime surpasses theirs in meanness. The
postman brings a letter from my wife, which
is of an icy coldness. My success has annoyed
her, and she pretends that she will not believe
it till I have consulted a chemical specialist.
Moreover, she warns me against all illusions
which may produce disturbance of the brain.
And, after all, she asks. What do I gain by all
this? Can I feed a family with my chemistry?
Here is the alternative again: Love or Science.
Without hesitation I write a final crushing
letter, and bid her good-bye, as pleased with
myself as a murderer after his deed.
In the evening I roam about the gloomy
Quarter, and cross the St. Martin’s canal. It
is as dark as the grave, and seems exactly made
to drown oneself in. I remain standing at the
corner of Rue Alibert. Why Alibert? Who is
he? Was not the graphite which the chemist
found in my sulphur called Alibert-graphite?
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