When I had read this and returned it to him, he said:
"You see that this was written on the day I was taken ill. Whether
she knew that I was helpless I know not. At any rate, she never
sent to inquire after me. She went off to Paris; Korinski followed
her; and--as I quickly learned on going once more into society--
they were married! Did you ever, in the whole course of your
experience, hear of such heartless conduct?"
Bourgonef asked this with a ferocity which quite startled me. I
did not answer him; for, in truth, I could not see that Agalma had
been very much to blame, even as he told the story, and felt sure
that could I have heard her version it would have worn a very
different aspect. That she was cold, and disappointed him, might
be true enough, but there was no crime; and I perfectly understood
how thoroughly odious he must have made himself to her by his
exactions and reproaches. I understood this, perhaps, all the
better, because in the course of his narrative Bourgonef had
revealed to me aspects of his nature which were somewhat repulsive.
Especially was I struck with his morbid vanity, and his readiness
to impute low motives to others. This unpleasant view of his
character--a character in many respects so admirable for its
generosity and refinement--was deepened as he went on, instead of
awaiting my reply to his question.
"For a wrong so measureless, you will naturally ask what
measureless revenge I sought."
The idea had not occurred to me; indeed I could see no wrong, and
this notion of revenge was somewhat startling in such a case.
"I debated it long," he continued. "I felt that since I was
prevented from arresting any of the evil to myself, I could at
least mature my plans for an adequate discharge of just
retributions on her. It reveals the impotence resulting from the
trammels of modern civilization, that while the possibilities of
wrong are infinite, the openings for vengeance are few and
contemptible. Only when a man is thrown upon the necessities of
this 'wild justice' does he discover how difficult vengeance really
is. Had Agalma been my wife, I could have wreaked my wrath upon
her, with assurance that some of the torture she inflicted on me
was to fall on her. Not having this power what was I to do? Kill
her? That would have afforded one moment of exquisite
satisfaction--but to her it would have been simply death--and I
wanted to kill the heart."
He seemed working with an insane passion, so that I regarded him
with disgust, mingled with some doubts as to what horrors he was
about to relate.
"My plan was chosen. The only way to reach her heart was to strike
through her husband. For several hours daily I practised with the
pistol, until--in spite of only having a left hand--I acquired
fatal skill. But this was not enough. Firing at a mark is simple
work. Firing at a man--especially one holding a pistol pointed at
you--is altogether different. I had too often heard of 'crack
shots' missing their men, to rely confidently on my skill in the
shooting gallery. It was necessary that my eye and hand should be
educated to familiarity with the real object. Part of the cause
why duelists miss their man is from the trepidation of fear. I was
without fear. At no moment in my life have I been afraid; and the
chance of being shot by Korinski I counted as nothing. The other
cause is unfamiliarity with the mark. This I secured myself
against by getting a lay figure of Korinski's height, dressing it
to resemble him, placing a pistol in its hand, and then practising
at this mark in the woods. After a short time I could send a
bullet through the thorax without taking more than a hasty glance
at the figure.
"Thus prepared, I started for Paris. But you will feel for me when
you learn that my hungry heart was baffled of its vengeance, and
baffled for ever. Agalma had been carried off by scarlet fever.
Korinski had left Paris, and I felt no strong promptings to follow
him, and wreak on him a futile vengeance. It was on HER my wrath
had been concentrated, and I gnashed my teeth at the thought that
she had escaped me.
"My story is ended. The months of gloomy depression which
succeeded, now that I was no longer sustained by the hope of
vengeance, I need not speak of. My existence was desolate, and
even now the desolation continues over the whole region of the
emotions. I carry a dead heart within me."