_Antony_ has given rise to so many controversies, that I must ask permission not to leave the subject thus; moreover, this work is not merely the most original and characteristic of all my works, but it is one of those rare creations which influences its age. When I wrote _Antony_, I was in love with a woman of whom, although far from beautiful, I was horribly jealous; jealous because she was placed in the same position as Adèle; her husband was an officer in the army; and the fiercest jealousy that a man can feel is that roused by the existence of a husband, seeing that one has no grounds for quarrelling with a woman who possesses a husband, however jealous one may be of him. One day she received a letter from her husband announcing his return. I almost went mad. I went to one of my friends employed in the War Office; three times the leave of absence, which was ready to be sent off, disappeared; it was either torn up or burnt by him. The husband did not return. What I suffered during that time of suspense, I could not attempt to describe, although twenty-four years have passed over, since that love departed the way of the poet Villon's "old moons." But read _Antony_: that will tell you what I suffered! _Antony_ is not a drama, nor a tragedy! not even a theatrical piece; _Antony_ is a description of love, of jealousy and of anger, in five acts. Antony was myself, leaving out the assassination, and Adèle was my mistress, leaving out the flight. Therefore, I took Byron's words for my epigram, "_People said Childe Harold was myself ... it does not matter if they did!_ "I put the following verses as my preface; they are not very good; I could improve them now: but I shall do nothing of the kind, they would lose their flavour. Poor as they are, they depict two things well enough: the feverish time at which they were composed and the disordered state of my heart at that period. "Que de fois tu m'as dit, aux heures du délire, Quand mon front tout à coup devenait soucieux: 'Sur ta bouche pourquoi cet effrayant sourire? Pourquoi ces larmes dans tes yeux?' Pourquoi? C'est que mon cœur, au milieu des délices, D'un souvenir jaloux constamment oppressé, Froid au bonheur présent, va chercher ses supplices Dans l'avenir et le passé! Jusque dans tes baisers je retrouve des peines, Tu m'accables d'amour!... L'amour, je m'en souviens, Pour la première fois s'est glissé dans tes veines Sous d'autres baisers que les miens! Du feu des voluptés vainement tu m'enivres! Combien, pour un beau jour, de tristes lendemains! Ces charmes qu'à mes mains, en palpitant, tu livres, Palpiteront sous d'autres mains! Et je ne pourrai pas, dans ma fureur jalouse, De l'infidélité te réserver le prix; Quelques mots à l'autel t'ont faite son épouse, Et te sauvent de mon mépris.