Compared with this good, all else is worthless; compared with this beauty, all else is deformity. Who would not forget and scorn every other love for the love of God?
Yes, the profane image of this woman shall depart, finally and forever, from my soul. I shall make of my prayers and of my penance a sharp scourge, and with it I will expel her therefrom, as Christ expelled the money-lenders from the temple.
June 18th.
This is the last letter I shall write to you. On the 25th I shall leave this place without fail.
I shall soon have the happiness of embracing you. Near you I shall be stronger; you will infuse courage into me, and lend me the energy in which I am wanting.
A tempest of conflicting emotions is raging now in my soul. The disorder of my ideas may be known by the disorder of what I write.
Twice I returned to the house of Pepita. I was cold and stern. I was as I ought to have been, but how much did it not cost me!
My father told me yesterday that Pepita was indisposed, and would not receive.
The thought at once assailed me that the cause of her indisposition might be her ill-requited love.
Why did I return her glances of fire? Why did I basely deceive her? Why did I make her believe I loved her? Why did my vile lips seek hers with ardor, and communicate the ardor of an unholy love to hers?