“Yes, there is,” he said, showing a face full of emotion and looking straight at me. “There are two different endings. But, for God’s sake, listen to me quietly and don’t interrupt. Some say”⁠—here he stood up and smiled with a smile that was heavy with pain⁠—“some say that A went off his head, fell passionately in love with B, and told her so. But she only laughed. To her it was all a jest, but to him a matter of life and death.”

I shuddered and tried to interrupt him⁠—tried to say that he must not dare to speak for me; but he checked me, laying his hand on mine.

“Wait!” he said, and his voice shook. “The other story is that she took pity on him, and fancied, poor child, from her ignorance of the world, that she really could love him, and so consented to be his wife. And he, in his madness, believed it⁠—believed that his whole life could begin anew; but she saw herself that she had deceived him and that he had deceived her.⁠ ⁠… But let us drop the subject finally,” he ended, clearly unable to say more; and then he began to walk up and down in silence before me.