from the narrow wound,
fascinated in spite of myself by this spectacle of immobility succeeding
action, death succeeding life, without shade or transition; this young
man, who a moment before was radiant with life and hope, now lay
motionless before me, as impossible to resuscitate as Cheops under his
pyramid. I was rooted to the spot, unconsciously repeating to myself
Lady Macbeth's piteous cry: "Who would have thought the man to have had
so much blood in him?"

They led me away; I allowed them to put me into the carriage like a
thing without strength or motion. The excitement of anger was succeeded
by an icy calmness; I had neither memory, thought nor plans; I was
annihilated; I would have liked to stop, throw myself on the ground and
lie there for ever. I felt no remorse, I had not even the consciousness
of my crime; the thought that I was a murderer had not yet had time to
fix itself in my mind; I felt no connection whatever with the deed that
I had done, and asked myself if it was I, Edgar de Meilhan, who had
killed Raymond! It seemed as if I had been only a looker-on.

As to Irene, the innocent cause of this horrible catastrophe, I scarcely
thought of her; she only appeared to me a faint phantom seen in another
existence! My love, my longings, my jealousy had all vanished. One drop
of Raymond's warm blood had stilled my mad vehemence. She is dead, poor
darling, it is the only happiness that I could wish her; her death
lessens my despair. If she lived, no torture, no penance could be fierce
enough to expiate my crime! No hermit of the desert would lash his
quivering flesh more pitilessly than I!

Rest in peace, dear Louise, for you will always be Louise to me, even in
heaven, which I shall never reach, for I have killed my brother and
belong to the race of Cain; I do not pity thee, for thou hast clasped in
thy arms the dream of thy heart. Thou hast been happy; and happiness is
a crime punishable on earth by death, as is genius and divinity.

You will forgive me! for I caught a glimpse of the angel through the
woman. I also sought my ideal and found it. O beautiful loving being!
why did your faith fail you, why did you doubt the love you inspired!
Alas! I thought you a faithless coquette; you were conscientious; your
heart was a treasure that you could not reclaim, and you wished to
bestow it worthily! Now I know all; we always know all when it is too
late, when the seal of the irreparable is fixed upon events!