Such was the abominable theme I developed with the diabolical power of paradoxes.
I was so incensed that I firmly believed I had wrestled against these frightful suspicions; and I became convinced of these horrors with the same bitter satisfaction of the man who discovers the vile snare into which he has fallen.
As an executioner I struck pitilessly, as a victim I moaned bitterly.
The remembrance of Hélène, of Marguerite, of Falmouth,—nothing could bring me to my senses.
From the confirmation of so much infamy to the hate and scorn it inspired, there was but one step for my fierce monomania.
From this point of view, all that was noble and generous in my conduct seemed to me shamefully ridiculous.
I was oppressed by these reflections when this letter from Catherine was handed to me:
"A sad, unhappy petitioner asks you to be kind and indulgent towards her; she wants you to pardon all that she has suffered to-day; she hopes to be alone this evening, and will expect you. Come; she is, moreover, resolved that Europe shall no longer be your rival."
In my state of mind, this letter so tenderly imploring, this simple allusion to my reproaches, seemed to me so humbly offensive, so coldly insulting, that I was on the point of writing to Madame de Fersen that I would never again see her.
But I changed my mind.