It went on and on, a nightmare, things that Angelica had never imagined, all told in his coarse and vivid language which impressed his images upon her mind forever.
"Good God!" he cried. "I’m appalled! How can even the God of mercy forgive such things? Angelica! I am lost!"
He threw himself on his knees before her and buried his head in her lap.
"I have been in hell!" he cried. "What am I to do? God, who sees my heart, knows that I repent; but is it enough?"
A feeling new to Angelica came over her, a divine kindliness and pity. She stroked his ruffled hair, and tried, in her blindness, her bewilderment, to find words to comfort him.
"Of course!" she said. "If you’re sorry, it’ll be all right. You can start all over again."
With his head still buried, he flung his arms about her waist and began to sob, hoarse, terrible sobs. She couldn’t bear it.
"Oh, don’t! Don’t, darling!" she cried.
He raised his head.
"I must be mad!" he said. "I’m so tortured. I long so, I yearn so, after God. I want to be alone with Him, to contemplate Him forever, in solitude—in a desert—to pray to Him—to make my songs to Him. Almost all my verses are of God, Angelica. And then I see a lovely face—I drink another glass of wine—I read a line of voluptuous beauty—and I am lost again. How will it end? Oh, my merciful God, how will it end?"