consent to my going alone, I shall steal away like a thief, without a
word to any one.

_May 23d._

I am a vile worm, not a man; I am the opprobrium and disgrace of
humanity. I am a hypocrite.

I have been encompassed by the pangs of death, and the waters of
iniquity have passed over me.

I am ashamed to write to you, and yet I write. I desire to confess
everything to you.

I can not turn away from evil. Far from abstaining from going to
Pepita's, I go there each night earlier than the last. It would seem as
if devils took me by the feet and carried me there against my will!

Happily, I never find Pepita alone; I do not desire to find her alone. I
almost always find there before me the excellent vicar, who attributes
our friendship to similarity of feeling in religious matters, and bases
it on piety, like the pure and innocent friendship he himself entertains
for her.

The progress of my malady is rapid. Like the stone that is loosened from
the mountain-top and gathers force as it falls, so is it with my spirit
now.

When Pepita and I shake hands, it is not now as before. Each one of us,
by an effort of the will, transmits to the other, through the handclasp,
every throb of the heart. It is as if, by some diabolical art, we had
effected a transfusion and a blending together of the most subtle
elements our blood. She must feel my life circulate through her veins,
as I feel hers in mine.

When I am near her, I love her; when I am away from her, I hate her.
When I am in her presence she inspires me with love; she draws me to
her; she subjugates me with gentleness; she lays upon me a very easy
yoke.

But the recollection of her undoes me. When I dream of her, I dream that
she is severing my head from my body, as Judith slew the captain of the
Assyrians; or that she is driving a nail into my temple, as Jael did to
Sisera. But when I am near her, she appears to me the Spouse of the Song
of Songs, and a voice within me calls to her, and I bless her, and I
regard her as a sealed fountain, as an inclosed garden, as the flower of
the valley, as the lily of the fields, my dove and my sister.

I desire to free myself from her, and I can not. I abhor, yet I almost
worship her. Her spirit enters into and takes possession of me as soon
as I behold her; it subjugates me, it abases me.

I leave her house each night, saying, "This is the last night I shall
return here"; and I return there on the following night!

When s