the most memorable day of my life.' I can say: 'This hairpin is all my
life.'"

I sought for some commonplace remark, and ended by saying:

"You have suffered on account of some woman?"

He replied abruptly:

"Say, rather, that I am suffering like a wretch."

"But come out on my balcony. A name rose to my lips just now which I
dared not utter; for if you had said 'Dead' as you did of Sophie Astier,
I should have fired a bullet into my brain, this very day."

We had gone out on the wide balcony from whence we could see two gulfs,
one to the right and the other to the left, enclosed by high gray
mountains. It was just twilight and the reflection of the sunset still
lingered in the sky.

He continued:

"Is Jeanne de Limours still alive?"

His eyes were fastened on mine and were full of a trembling anxiety. I
smiled.

"Parbleu--she is prettier than ever."

"Do you know her?"

"Yes."

He hesitated and then said:

"Very well?"

"No."

He took my hand.

"Tell me about her," he said.

"Why, I have nothing to tell. She is one of the most charming women, or,
rather, girls, and the most admired in Paris. She leads a delightful
existence and lives like a princess, that is all."

"I love her," he murmured in a tone in which he might have said "I am
going to die." Then suddenly he continued:

"Ah! For three years we lived in a state of terror and delight. I almost
killed her five or six times. She tried to pierce my eyes with that
hairpin that you saw just now. Look, do you see that little white spot
beneath my left eye? We loved each other. How can I explain that
infatuation? You would not understand it."

"There must be a simple form of love, the result of the mutual impulse of
two hearts and two souls. But there is also assuredly an atrocious form,
that tortures one cruelly, the result of the occult blending of two
unlike personalities who detest each other at the same time that they
adore one another."

"In three years this woman had ruined me. I had four million francs which
she squandered in her calm manner, quietly, eat them up with a gentle
smile that seemed to fall from her eyes on to her lips."

"You know her? There is something irresistible about her. What is it? I
do not know. Is it those gray eyes whose glance penetrates you like a
gimlet and remains there like the point of an arrow? It is more likely
the gentle, indifferent and fascinating smile that she wears like a mask.
Her slow grace