to
intoxicate me--I feel it flowing into my veins like my life's blood and
filling my soul with rapture beyond all telling."

'_September 27th._--When he gathered the spray of blossom at the
entrance to the wood and offered it to me, did I not, in my heart, call
him--_Life of my life_?

'When, in the avenue, we passed again by the fountain where he first
spoke to me, did I not call him _Life of my life_?

'When he took the wreath from off the Hermes and gave it back to my
child, did he not give me to understand that the woman exalted in these
verses had fallen from her high estate, and that I, I alone, was all his
hope? And once more I called him _Life of my life_.

'_September 28th._--How long I have been in finding peace!

'From that moment onwards, what hours of struggle and travail I have
had, how painfully I have striven to penetrate the real state of my
mind, to see things in their true light, bring a calm and fair judgment
to bear upon what has happened, to recognise and determine upon my duty!
But I continually evaded myself, my mind became confused, my will was
but a broken reed on which to lean, every effort was vain. By a sort of
instinct, I have avoided being alone with him, kept close to Francesca
or my child, or stayed here in my room as in a haven of refuge. When my
eyes did meet his, I seemed to read in them a profound and imploring
sadness. Does he not know how deeply, deeply, deeply I love him?

'He does not know it, nor ever will. That is my firm resolve--that is my
duty. Courage!

'Help me, oh my God!

'_September 29th._--Why did he speak? Why did he break the enchanted
silence in which I let my soul be steeped, almost without regret or
fear? Why tear away the veil of uncertainty and put me face to face with
his unveiled love? Now I have no further excuse for temporising, for
deluding myself. The danger is there--certain, undeniable, manifest--it
attracts me to its dizzy edge like a precipice. One moment of weakness,
of languor, and I am lost.

'I ask myself--am I sincere in my pain and regret at this unexpected
revelation? How is it that I think perpetually of those words? And why,
when I repeat them to myself, does a wave of ineffable rapture sweep
over my soul? Why do I thrill to the heart's core at the imagined
prospect of hearing more--more such words?

'Night. The agitation of my soul takes the forms of questions,
riddles--I ask myself endless questions to which I never have an ans