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after supper, M. D---- R----- having retired, M. F---- used
no ceremony, and, although I was present, told his wife that he
intended to pay her a visit after writing two letters which he had to
dispatch early the next morning. The moment he had left the room we
looked at each other, and with one accord fell into each other's arms. A
torrent of delights rushed through our souls without restraint, without
reserve, but when the first ardour had been appeased, without giving
me time to think or to enjoy the most complete, the most delicious
victory, she drew back, repulsed me, and threw herself, panting,
distracted, upon a chair near her bed. Rooted to the spot, astonished,
almost mad, I tremblingly looked at her, trying to understand what had
caused such an extraordinary action. She turned round towards me and
said, her eyes flashing with the fire of love,
"My darling, we were on the brink of the precipice."
"The precipice! Ah! cruel woman, you have killed me, I feel myself
dying, and perhaps you will never see me again."
I left her in a state of frenzy, and rushed out, towards the esplanade, to
cool myself, for I was choking. Any man who has not experienced the
cruelty of an action like that of Madame F----, and especially in the
situation I found myself in at that moment, mentally and bodily, can
hardly realize what I suffered, and, although I have felt that suffering, I
could not give an idea of it.
I was in that fearful state, when I heard my name called from a window,

and unfortunately I condescended to answer. I went near the window,
and I saw, thanks to the moonlight, the famous Melulla standing on her
balcony.
"What are you doing there at this time of night?" I enquired.
"I am enjoying the cool evening breeze. Come up for a little while."
This Melulla, of fatal memory, was a courtezan from Zamte, of rare
beauty, who for the last four months had been the delight and the rage
of all the young men in Corfu. Those who had known her agreed in
extolling her charms: she was the talk of all the city. I had seen her
often, but, although she was very beautiful, I was very far from
thinking her as lovely as Madame F----, putting my affection for the
latter on one side. I recollect seeing in Dresden, in the year 1790, a very
handsome woman who was the image of Melulla.
I went upstairs mechanically, and she took me to a voluptuous boudoir;
she complained of my being the only one who had never paid her a
visit, when I was the man she would have preferred to all others, and I
had the infamy to give way.... I became the most criminal of men.
It was neither desire, nor imagination, nor the merit of the woman
which caused me to yield, for Melulla was in no way worthy of me; no,
it was weakness, indolence, and the state of bodily and mental irritation
in which I then found myself: it was a sort of spite, because the angel
whom I adored had displeased me by a caprice, which, had I not been
unworthy of her, would only have caused me to be still more attached
to her.
Melulla, highly pleased with her success, refused the gold I wanted to
give her, and allowed me to go after I had spent two hours with her.
When I recovered my composure, I had but one feeling-hatred for
myself and for the contemptible creature who had allured me to be
guilty of so vile an insult to the loveliest of her sex. I went home the
prey to fearful remorse, and went to bed, but sleep never closed my
eyes throughout that cruel night.

In the morning, worn out with fatigue and sorrow, I got up, and as soon
as I was dressed I went to M. F----, who had sent for me to give me
some orders. After I had returned, and had given him an account of my
mission, I called upon Madame F----, and finding her at her toilet I
wished her good morning, observing that her lovely face was breathing
the cheerfulness and the calm of happiness; but, suddenly, her eyes
meeting mine, I saw her countenance change, and an expression of
sadness replace her looks of satisfaction. She cast her eyes down as if
she was deep in thought, raised them again as if to read my very soul,
and breaking our painful silence, as soon as she had dismissed her maid,
she said to me, with an accent full of tenderness and of solemnity,
"Dear one, let there be no concealment either on my part or on