I was in that fearful state when I heard my name called from a window.
Unfortunately, I condescended to answer.
I went nearer and, by the moonlight, saw the famous Melulla standing on her balcony.
"What are you doing there at this time of night?" I asked.
"I am enjoying the cool evening breeze. Come up for a little while."
This Melulla, of fatal memory, was a courtesan from Zante, of rare beauty. For four months she had been the delight, ruin, and 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.
She received me as if she had been expecting that weakness in me all along, and led me into a voluptuous boudoir. Everything there invited surrender: the soft light, the perfume, the cushions, the silence, and the woman who complained, smiling, that I alone had never paid her a visit.
"You," she said, "when you are the one I would have preferred to all the others."
I yielded.
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.
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 senses, I had only one feeling left: hatred for myself, and for the contemptible creature who had drawn me into offering so vile an insult to the loveliest of her sex.
I went home devoured by remorse.
I threw myself into bed, but sleep never closed my eyes throughout that cruel night.
In the morning, worn out by fatigue and grief, I got up.
As soon as I was dressed, I went to M. F., who had sent for me to give me orders. I carried them out, returned, and made my report. Then I went to Madame F.
I found her at her toilette.
I wished her good morning, observing that her lovely face was breathing the cheerfulness and the calm of happiness.
At that moment her eyes met mine.
Her expression changed.
The brightness left her face. Sadness took its place so suddenly that I felt struck. She lowered her eyes as if to think, then raised them again and looked at me as if she wished to read my soul.
The silence became unbearable.
She dismissed her maid.
Then, in a voice full of tenderness and solemnity, she said,
"Dear one, let there be no concealment either on my part or on yours."
I stood motionless.
"I felt deeply grieved when I saw you leave me last night, and a little consideration made me understand all the evil which might accrue to you in consequence of what I had done. With a nature like yours, such scenes might cause very dangerous disorders, and I have resolved not to do again anything by halves."
Her voice trembled.
"I thought that you went out to breathe the fresh air, and I hoped it would do you good. I placed myself at my window, where I remained more than an hour without seeing a light in your room."
I could not raise my eyes.
"Sorry for what I had done, loving you more than ever, I was compelled, when my husband came to my room, to go to bed with the sad conviction that you had not come home."
She paused.
"This morning, M. F. sent an officer to tell you that he wanted to see you, and I heard the messenger inform him that you were not yet up, and that you had come home very late. I felt my heart swell with sorrow. I am not jealous, dearest, for I know that you cannot love anyone but me; I only felt afraid of some misfortune."
Her eyes searched my face again.
"At last, this morning, when I heard you coming, I was happy, because I was ready to show my repentance, but I looked at you, and you seemed a different man."
I felt the blood leave my face.
"Now, I am still looking at you," she said, more softly, "and, in spite of myself, my soul reads upon your countenance that you are guilty, that you have outraged my love."
I made a movement, but no word came.
"Tell me at once, dearest, if I am mistaken; if you have deceived me, say so openly. Do not be unfaithful to love and to truth."
The sweetness of her voice was more terrible than anger.
"Knowing that I was the cause of it," she continued, "I should never forgive myself, but there is an excuse for you in my heart, in my whole being."
More than once, in the course of my life, I have found myself under the painful necessity of telling falsehoods to the woman I loved.
But here, after such an appeal, so true, so tender, so noble, how could I be otherwise than sincere? My crime had already debased me enough, and I could not degrade myself still more by falsehood.
I tried to speak.
No word came.
I burst into tears.
"What, my darling!" she cried. "You are weeping! Your tears make me miserable. You ought not to have shed any with me but tears of happiness and love."
She took my hands.
"Quick, my beloved, tell me whether you have made me wretched. Tell me what fearful revenge you have taken on me, who would rather die than offend you. If I have caused you any sorrow, it has been in the innocence of a loving and devoted heart."
"My own darling angel," I said at last, "I never thought of revenge, for my heart, which can never cease to adore you, could never conceive such a dreadful idea. It is against my own heart that my cowardly weakness has allured me to the commission of a crime which, for the remainder of my life, makes me unworthy of you."
Her face grew pale.
"Have you, then, given yourself to some wretched woman?"
"Yes, I have spent two hours in the vilest debauchery, and my soul was present only to be the witness of my sadness, of my remorse, of my unworthiness."
"Sadness and remorse!" she said softly. "Oh, my poor friend! I believe it."
She covered her face.
"But it is my fault; I alone ought to suffer; it is I who must beg you to forgive me."
Her tears made mine flow again.
"Divine soul," I said, "the reproaches you are addressing to yourself increase twofold the gravity of my crime. You would never have been guilty of any wrong against me if I had been really worthy of your love."
I felt the full truth of those words as I spoke them.
We spent the rest of the day together, outwardly calm, almost composed. Before others, we wore the same faces as usual. But beneath that quiet surface, sorrow lay heavy in both our hearts.
She was curious to know all the circumstances of my miserable adventure, and, accepting it as an expiation, I related them to her.
Full of kindness, she assured me that we were bound to ascribe that accident to fate, and that the same thing might have happened to the best of men. She added that I was more to be pitied than condemned, and that she did not love me less.
We both were certain that we would seize the first favourable opportunity, she of obtaining her pardon, I of atoning for my crime, by giving each other new and complete proofs of our mutual ardour.
But Heaven in its justice had ordered differently, and I was cruelly punished for my disgusting debauchery.
On the third day, as I got up in the morning, an awful pricking announced the horrid state into which the wretched Melulla had thrown me.
I was thunderstruck!
The first thought was not of myself. It was of her. What if, during those three days, she had granted me the happiness I desired? What if I had carried corruption from that vile adventure into the body of the woman I adored? What if my weakness had poisoned her life?
The thought nearly drove me mad.
What would have been her feelings if I had made her unhappy for the remainder of her life! Would anyone, then, knowing the whole case, have condemned me if I had destroyed my own life in order to deliver myself from everlasting remorse?
Had such a misfortune happened, I do not know what tribunal of honest men would have blamed me for turning my own hand against myself. A man crushed by remorse may become both judge and executioner. I am certain of one thing only: if such a misfortune had happened, I should have committed suicide.
For the moment, grief overwhelmed me, but I tried to take courage. I had been punished in this way before, and imagined that the old remedies, a strict diet and patience, would restore me in six weeks without anyone suspecting my condition.
But I soon found out that I had not seen the end of my troubles; Melulla had communicated to my system all the poisons which corrupt the source of life.
I knew an elderly physician, experienced in such matters. I consulted him in secret. He examined me, gave me his orders, and promised to restore me in two months.
He proved as good as his word.
At the beginning of September I found myself in good health, and it was about that time that I returned to Venice.
The first resolution I took, as soon as I understood my condition, was to tell Madame F. everything.
I would not wait until necessity forced the confession from me. A confession made too late would have made her blush for her own weakness, and would have shown her, with cruel clarity, the danger to which her love for me might have exposed her.
Her affection was too dear to me to run the risk of losing it through a want of confidence in her.
Knowing her heart, her candour, and the generosity which had prompted her to say that I was more to be pitied than blamed, I thought myself bound to prove by my sincerity that I deserved her esteem.
I told her candidly my position and the state I had been thrown in, when I thought of the dreadful consequences it might have had for her.
She shuddered.
Her face grew pale. Her hands trembled.
When I added that, had I brought such misery upon her, I would have avenged her by taking my own life, she covered her eyes.
"Villainous, infamous Melulla!" she exclaimed.
I repeated those words, but turning them against myself when I realized all I had sacrificed through the most disgusting weakness.
Everyone in Corfu knew of my visit to that wretched woman. Everyone also saw that I still appeared healthy, and many seemed surprised by it. Melulla had already made more than one victim, whom she treated like me.
My illness, however, was not my only sorrow.
Others soon came, different in nature, but hardly less cruel and not less serious.