Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - V. Purgatory
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the Russian, has turned against me. In order
to disarm them, I open fire myself.
“Popoffsky is in Paris?” I ask.
“No, not yet,” one of them answers.
“Yes,” says another, “he has been seen in
the office of the Mercure de France.”
They disagree with each other, and at the
end I am as wise as before, but I pretend to
believe all I am told. But the obvious enmity
with which I am regarded in the restaurant
makes me swear not to go there again. I am
sorry, for some of them were really congenial
to me. Thus, once more, this cursed enemy
drives me into loneliness and exile. My hatred
against him is again aroused, and torments and
poisons me. I don’t look forward to death now!
Shall the hand of an inferior man crush me?
The humiliation for me and the honour for him
would be too great. I will accept the challenge
and defend myself. In order to obtain clear
information I go to find a Danish painter, a
friend of Popoffsky, in the Rue de la Santé
behind the Val de Grâce. Six weeks before he had
come to Paris, and, although formerly a friend
of mine, had at our first meeting greeted me in
almost a hostile way. The next day, however,
he visited me, invited me to his studio, and said
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