past. How many times did I not hold myself 
back from leaping at her throat and crying, ‘Be 
imperfect then for once, wretched woman, that 
I may love you without discomfort and anger.’ 
For several years I admired her, my heart full 
of hatred. In the end it was not I who died of 
it.” 
“Ah,” said the others, “she died, then?” 
“Yes, it could not go on like that. Love had 
become for me a crushing nightmare; to con-
quer or die, as the political phrase goes, was 
the alternative which Fate laid upon me. One 
evening in a wood by the shore of a mere, af-
ter a melancholy walk where her eyes, hers, 
reflected the softness of heaven, and my 
heart, mine, shuddered like hell——” 
“What!” 
{ 
“How” 
“What do you mean?” 
“It was inevitable. My sense of justice is too 
strong to allow me to beat, insult or dismiss an 
irreproachable servant; but I had to reconcile 
this sentiment with the horror with which this 
being inspired me: to disencumber myself 
without lacking in respect. What would you 
that I should do with her, since she was per-
fect?” 
The three other men looked at their com-
panion with a vague and slightly stupefied