ck in the head--that is, in her
pride. It was there that she thought herself strong, and that she was
weak.

Barkilphedro had found it out. If Josiana had been able to see clearly
through the night of Barkilphedro, if she had been able to distinguish
what lay in ambush behind his smile, that proud woman, so highly
situated, would have trembled. Fortunately for the tranquillity of her
sleep, she was in complete ignorance of what was in the man.

The unexpected spreads, one knows not whence. The profound depths of
life are dangerous. There is no small hate. Hate is always enormous. It
preserves its stature in the smallest being, and remains a monster. An
elephant hated by a worm is in danger.

Even before he struck, Barkilphedro felt, with joy, the foretaste of the
evil action which he was about to commit. He did not as yet know what he
was going to do to Josiana; but he had made up his mind to do something.
To have come to this decision was a great step taken. To crush Josiana
utterly would have been too great a triumph. He did not hope for so
much; but to humiliate her, lessen her, bring her grief, redden her
proud eyes with tears of rage--what a success! He counted on it.
Tenacious, diligent, faithful to the torment of his neighbour, not to
be torn from his purpose, nature had not formed him for nothing. He well
understood how to find the flaw in Josiana's golden armour, and how to
make the blood of that Olympian flow.

What benefit, we ask again, would accrue to him in so doing? An immense
benefit--doing evil to one who had done good to him. What is an envious
man? An ungrateful one. He hates the light which lights and warms him.
Zoilus hated that benefit to man, Homer. To inflict on Josiana what
would nowadays be called vivisection--to place her, all convulsed, on
his anatomical table; to dissect her alive, at his leisure, in some
surgery; to cut her up, as an amateur, while she should scream--this
dream delighted Barkilphedro!

To arrive at this result it was necessary to suffer somewhat himself; he
did so willingly. We may pinch ourselves with our own pincers. The knife
as it shuts cuts our fingers. What does it matter? That he should
partake of Josiana's torture was a matter of little moment. The
executioner handling the red-hot iron, when about to brand a prisoner,
takes no heed of a little burn. Because another suffers much, he suffers
nothing. To see the victim's writhings takes all pain from the
inflicte