I will not let you know what happens to me; I will
not shed tears for you to see; only--I will not see you again.
. . . Ah! I cannot go on, my heart is breaking . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I have been sitting
benumbed and stupid for some moments. Dear love, I do not find
that any feeling of pride rises against you; you are so
kind-hearted, so open; you would find it impossible to hurt me or
to deceive me; and you will tell me the truth, however cruel it may
be. Do you wish me to encourage your confession? Well, then, heart
of mine, I shall find comfort in a woman's thought. Has not the
youth of your being been mine, your sensitive, wholly gracious,
beautiful, and delicate youth? No woman shall find henceforth the
Gaston whom I have known, nor the delicious happiness that he has
given me. . . . No; you will never love again as you have loved,
as you love me now; no, I shall never have a rival, it is
impossible. There will be no bitterness in my memories of our
love, and I shall think of nothing else. It is out of your power
to enchant any woman henceforth by the childish provocations, the
charming ways of a young heart, the soul's winning charm, the
body's grace, the swift communion of rapture, the whole divine
cortege of young love, in fine.
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