That Pâquerette has filled me with the most frightful torment. I have descended, one by one, all the rounds of the ladder of despair; now, my infamy and my sufferings are complete. I know the name of that unknown warmth which filled my breast and stifled me. That warmth was jealousy, a burning wave of anguish and terror. This wave has rolled upward, it has invaded my entire being. Now, there is no portion of me which is not in pain and jealous, which does not complain of the horrible pressure beneath which all my flesh cries out. I know not in what manner others are jealous. As for me, I am jealous with all my body, with all my heart. When doubt has once entered into me, it watches, it works pitilessly; it wounds me every second, searches me, constantly making further encroachments. The pain is physical; my stomach is convulsed, my limbs grow heavy beneath me, my head feels hollow, weakness and fever seize upon me. And, above these afflictions of the nerves and muscles, I feel the anguish of my heart, deep and terrifying, which weighs me down, burns me incessantly. A single idea turns upon itself in the immense emptiness of my thoughts: I am no longer loved, I am deceived; my brain beats like a bell with this one sound, all my vitals have the same quiver, twisted and torn. Nothing could be more painful than these hours of jealousy which strike me doubly, in my body and in my affection. The suffering of the flesh and the suffering of the heart are united in a sensation of overwhelming weight, which is inexorable, crushing me constantly. And I hold my breath, abandoning myself, descending deeper and deeper into my suspicions, aggravating my wound, withdrawing myself from life, living only in the thought which is ruthlessly gnawing me. If I suffered less, I would like to know of what my suffering is composed. I would take a bitter pleasure in interrogating my body, in questioning my tenderness. I am curious to see the uttermost depths of my despair. Without doubt, a thousand wretched things are there--love, selfishness, self-love, cowardice and evil passions, to say nothing of the rebellion of the senses, of the vanities of the intelligence. This woman who is going away from me, weary of my caresses, and who prefers another to me, wounds me in every portion of my being; she disdains me, she declares by her acts that she has found a love sweeter, purer, than mine. Besides, there is, above all, a feeling of immense solitude. I feel myself forsaken, I quiver with fright; I cannot live without this creature, whom I have taken pleasure in regarding as an eternal companion; I am cold, I tremble; I would rather die than remain deserted.