childish as to be vexed about a slight from you, you cannot yourself
believe. I cannot really regret it, for I could no longer be of use to
you; you doubtless think the same yourself; but I cannot do without you;
my affection for you is the only vital thing in me; your life throbbed
in mine."

Sometimes the letters ended with an outburst of a sort of despairing
humour, such as: "Vale! (Fanfare! somersaults by Pagliaccio.)" But
whether Sebastian assumed a serious or a desperate tone, the renewal of
our old companionship was equally impossible to me. I could not ignore
what had happened, and I could not have a friend who was jealous if I
talked to others. Since my intellectual entity had awakened, all
jealousy had been an abomination to me, but jealousy in one man of
another man positively revolted me. I recognised Sebastian's great
merits, respected his character, admired his wide range of knowledge,
but I could not associate with him again, could not even so much as walk
down the street by his side. All his affectionate and beautiful letters
glanced off ineffectual from this repugnance. Something in me had
suddenly turned stony, like a plant plunged in petrifying water.

Six years passed before we saw each other again. We met then with simple
and sincere affection. Sebastian's old passion had evaporated without
leaving a trace; he himself could no longer understand it. And, though
far apart, and with nothing to connect us closely, we continued to think
kindly of one another and to exchange reflections, until, after a few
years, Death carried him away, ere he had reached the years of real
manhood, or fulfilled any of the promises of his gifted and industrious
youth.