Midnight
I thought , -- forgive me , madame , -- I believed you might love me . Your good-will , your glances interpreted by me , a lover , seemed to me so dangerous -- for me -- that I invented that story of Malaga , knowing it was the sort of liaison which women can not forgive . I did it in a moment when I felt that my love would be communicated , fatally , to you . Despise me , crush me with the contempt you have so often cast upon me when I did not deserve it ; and yet I am certain that , if , on that evening when your aunt took Adam away from you , I had said what I have now written to you , I should , like the tamed tiger that sets his teeth once more in living flesh , and scents the blood , and -- `` Midnight . '' `` I could not go on ; the memory of that hour is still too living . Yes , I was maddened . Was there hope for me in your eyes ?