But that hope, too, was vain;
the longer it went on, the more intense was his suffering.

He was respected in society for his active benevolence, though every one
was overawed by his stern and gloomy character. But the more he was
respected, the more intolerable it was for him. He confessed to me that he
had thoughts of killing himself. But he began to be haunted by another
idea--an idea which he had at first regarded as impossible and unthinkable,
though at last it got such a hold on his heart that he could not shake it
off. He dreamed of rising up, going out and confessing in the face of all
men that he had committed murder. For three years this dream had pursued
him, haunting him in different forms. At last he believed with his whole
heart that if he confessed his crime, he would heal his soul and would be
at peace for ever. But this belief filled his heart with terror, for how
could he carry it out? And then came what happened at my duel.

"Looking at you, I have made up my mind."

I looked at him.

"Is it possible," I cried, clasping my hands, "that such a trivial
incident could give rise to such a resolution in you?"

"My resolution has been growing for the last three years," he answered,
"and your story only gave the last touch to it. Looking at you, I
reproached myself and envied you." He said this to me almost sullenly.

"But you won't be believed," I observed; "it's fourteen years ago."

"I have proofs, great proofs. I shall show them."

Then I cried and kissed him.

"Tell me one thing, one thing," he said (as though it all depended upon
me), "my wife, my children! My wife may die of grief, and though my
children won't lose their rank and property, they'll be a convict's
children and for ever! And what a memory, what a memory of me I shall
leave in their hearts!"

I said nothing.

"And to part from them, to leave them for ever? It's for ever, you know,
for ever!"

I sat still and repeated a silent prayer. I got up at last, I felt afraid.

"Well?" He looked at me.

"Go!" said I, "confess. Everything passes, only the truth remains. Your
children will understand, when they grow up, the nobility of your
resolution."

He left me that time as though he had made up his mind. Yet for more than
a fortnight afterwards, he came to me every evening, still preparing
himself, still unable to bring himself to the point. He made my heart
ache. One day he would come determined and say fervently:

"I know i