loving a faithless woman, and their conduct, under the circumstances, is
admirable in its firmness. But is it thus one loves at nineteen when,
knowing nothing of the world, desiring everything, one feels, within, the
germ of all the passions? Everywhere some voice appeals to him. All is
desire, all is revery. There is no reality which holds him when the
heart is young; there is no oak so gnarled that it may not give birth to
a dryad; and if one had a hundred arms one need not fear to open them;
one has but to clasp his mistress and all is well.

As for me, I did not understand what else there was to do but love, and
when any one spoke to me of other occupations I did not reply. My
passion for my mistress had something fierce about it, for all my life
had been severely monachal. Let me cite a single instance. She gave me
her miniature in a medallion. I wore it over my heart, a practice much
affected by men; but one day, while idly rummaging about a shop filled
with curiosities, I found an iron "discipline whip" such as was used by
the mediaeval flagellants. At the end of this whip was a metal plate
bristling with sharp iron points; I had the medallion riveted to this
plate and then returned it to its place over my heart. The sharp points
pierced my bosom with every movement and caused such strange, voluptuous
anguish that I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in order to
intensify the sensation. I knew very well that I was committing a folly;
love is responsible for many such idiocies.

But since this woman deceived me I loathed the cruel medallion. I can
not tell with what sadness I removed that iron circlet, and what a sigh
escaped me when it was gone.

"Ah! poor wounds!" I said, "you will soon heal, but what balm is there
for that other deeper wound?"