Poor, fair little head! Did I think on that quiet, peaceful May
evening that she would afterwards become the heroine of my troubled
romance?
Now, while I write these lines, the autumn rain beats fiercely against
my warm windows, and the wind howls above me. I gaze at the dark
window and on the dark background of night beyond, trying by the
strength of my imagination to conjure up again the charming image of
my heroine. . . . I see her with her innocent, childish, naive, kind
little face and loving eyes, and I wish to throw down my pen and tear
up and burn all that I have already written.
But here, next to my inkstand, is her photograph. Here, the fair
little head is represented in all the vain majesty of a beautiful but
deeply-fallen woman. Her weary eyes, proud of their depravity, are
motionless. Here she is just the serpent, the harm of whose bite
Urbenin would scarcely have called exaggerated.
She gave a kiss to the storm, and the storm broke the flower at the
very roots. Much was taken, but too dearly was it paid for. The reader
will forgive her her sins!