ncealed by all. Besides the general cause of the mutual hatred of
husbands and wives resulting from complicity in the pollution of a human
being, and also from other causes, the inexhaustible source of marital
wounds is jealousy. But by tacit consent it is determined to conceal
them from all, and we conceal them. Knowing them, each one supposes in
himself that it is an unfortunate peculiarity, and not a common destiny.
So it was with me, and it had to be so. There cannot fail to be jealousy
between husbands and wives who live immorally. If they cannot sacrifice
their pleasures for the welfare of their child, they conclude therefrom,
and truly, that they will not sacrifice their pleasures for, I will not
say happiness and tranquillity (since one may sin in secret), but even
for the sake of conscience. Each one knows very well that neither admits
any high moral reasons for not betraying the other, since in their
mutual relations they fail in the requirements of morality, and from
that time distrust and watch each other.

"Oh, what a frightful feeling of jealousy! I do not speak of that real
jealousy which has foundations (it is tormenting, but it promises an
issue), but of that unconscious jealousy which inevitably accompanies
every immoral marriage, and which, having no cause, has no end. This
jealousy is frightful. Frightful, that is the word.

"And this is it. A young man speaks to my wife. He looks at her with a
smile, and, as it seems to me, he surveys her body. How does he dare to
think of her, to think of the possibility of a romance with her? And how
can she, seeing this, tolerate him? Not only does she tolerate him, but
she seems pleased. I even see that she puts herself to trouble on his
account. And in my soul there rises such a hatred for her that each of
her words, each gesture, disgusts me. She notices it, she knows not what
to do, and how assume an air of indifferent animation? Ah! I suffer!
That makes her gay, she is content. And my hatred increases tenfold, but
I do not dare to give it free force, because at the bottom of my soul
I know that there are no real reasons for it, and I remain in my seat,
feigning indifference, and exaggerating my attention and courtesy to
HIM.

"Then I get angry with myself. I desire to leave the room, to leave them
alone, and I do, in fact, go out; but scarcely am I outside when I am
invaded by a fear of what is taking place within my absence. I go in
again, inventing some