He came by the morning train, and left the same evening. That was the
day before yesterday, and I have never slept since. Neither have I
thought. There is time enough before me for thought.
He went away the same evening; so at least I was spared the night.
I have burnt his letter unread. What could it tell me that I did not
already know? Could it hold any torture which I have not already
suffered?
Do I really suffer? Have I not really become insensible to pain? Once
the cold moon was a burning sun; her own central fires consumed it. Now
she is cold and dead; her light a mere reflection and a falsehood.
* * * * *
His first glance told me all. He cast down his eyes so that he might not
hurt me again. ... And I--coward that I was--I accepted without
interrupting him the tender words he spoke, and even his caress....
But when our eyes met a second time we both knew that all was at an end
between us.
One reads of "tears of blood." During the few hours he spent in my house
I think we smiled "smiles of blood."
When we sat opposite to each other at table, we might have been sitting
each side a deathbed. We only attempted to speak when Jeanne was waiting
at table.
When we parted, he said:
"I feel like the worst of criminals!"
He has not committed a crime. He loved me once, now he no longer loves
me. That is all.
* * * * *
But after what has happened I cannot remain here. Everything will remind
me of my hours of joyful waiting; of my hours of failure and abasement.
Where can I go to hide my shame?
* * * * *
Richard....
* * * * *
Would that be too humiliating? Why should it be? Did I not give him my
promise: "If I should ever regret my resolution," I said to him.
* * * * *
I will write to him, but first I must gather up my strength again.
Jeanne goes long walks with me. We do not talk to each other, but it
comforts me to find her so faithful.
* * * * *