You shall be told the truth about the man you married, whom you have believed to be in prison as a political criminal, for these last two years.
Later you will know why I hid this secret from you until now.
These lines which I now write in this journal retrace almost all the events of my life, up to the moment when we quitted Serval together. They will be the last I shall write in it.
Why should I henceforth need such a cold confidant?
It is in your angelic heart, Marie, that I will trace all my thoughts; or, rather, it is there that I will leave the imprint of the perfect bliss that intoxicates me.
You will read this journal, Marie; you will see that I have been very guilty, that I have suffered greatly.
You will read the story of our love from its very inception.
Since leaving Serval I have ceased to write in this journal. What could I have written? Whatever I have said, Marie, will apply to the future years I shall spend with you.
You will not find here the date of the birth of our Arthur,—our child,—the greatest joy of my life. Nor will you find the date of that terrible day on which I trembled for your life, my day of most fearful torture.
While the paroxysm of that unknown joy, of that unknown grief, lasted, I neither thought, reflected, nor acted, I did not exist.