A Sprig of EmpirePaul clutched with convulsive fingers the heart–breaking diary to which Élisabeth had confided her anguish:
"The poor angel!" he thought. "What she must have gone through! And this is only the beginning of the road that led to her death. . . ."
He dreaded reading on. The hours of torture were near at hand, menacing and implacable, and he would have liked to call out to Élisabeth:
"Go away, go away! Don't defy Fate! I have forgotten the past. I love you."
It was too late. He himself, through his cruelty, had condemned her to suffer; and he must go on to the bitter end and witness every station of the Calvary of which he knew the last, terrifying stage.
He hastily turned the pages. There were first three blank leaves, those dated 20, 21 and 22 August: days of confusion
