Such was my fate.  Her refusal, with the still more cruel charge not to write to her again, made me furious.  In it I only saw inconstancy.  I thought she had fallen in love with the merchant.  My state of mind may be judged from the fact that I determined to kill my rival.  The most savage plans, the most cruel designs, ran a race through my bewildered brain.  I was jealous, in love, a different being from my ordinary self; anger, vanity, and shame had destroyed my powers of reasoning.  The charming girl whom I was forced to admire, whom I should have esteemed all the more for the course she had taken, whom I had regarded as an angel, became in my eyes a hateful monster, a meet object for punishment.  At last I determined on a sure method of revenge, which I knew to be both dishonourable and cowardly, but in my blind passion I did not hesitate for a moment.  I resolved to go to the merchant at M. Corneman’s, where he was staying, to tell him all that had passed between the lady and myself, and if that did not make him renounce the idea of marrying her I would tell him that one of us must die, and if he refused my challenge I determined to assassinate him.

With this terrible plan in my brain, which makes me shudder now when I think of it, I ate with the appetite of a wild beast, lay down and slept till day.  I was in the same mind when I awoke, and dressed myself hastily yet carefully, put two good pistols in my pocket and went to M. Corneman’s.  My rival was still asleep; I waited for him, and for a quarter of an hour my thoughts only grew more bitter and my determination more fixed.  All at once he came into the room, in his dressing-gown, and received me with open arms, telling me in the kindest of voices that he had been expecting me to call, as he could guess what feelings I, a friend of his future wife’s, could have for him, and saying that his friendship for me should always be as warm as hers.  His honest open face, his straightforward words, overwhelmed me, and I was silent for a few minutes—­in fact I did not know what to say.  Luckily he gave me enough time to recollect myself, as he talked on for a quarter of an hour without noticing that I did not open my lips.

M. Corneman then came in; coffee was served, and my speech returned to me; but I am happy to say I refrained from playing the dishonourable part I had intended; the crisis was passed.

It may be remarked that the fiercest spirits are like a cord stretched too tight, which either breaks or relaxes.  I have known several persons of that temperament—­the Chevalier L——­, amongst others, who in a fit of passion used to feel his soul escaping by every pore.  If at the moment when his anger burst forth he was able to break something and make a great noise, he calmed down in a moment; reason resumed her sway, and the raging lion became as mild as a lamb.