Brooding in the woods above the chateau where Bartels and I had been so happy, I was compelled to admit to myself that I had played my cards cleverly in the events which occurred all those years later.
I concealed my part in the Bartels’ affair so well that I know for certain that on the February night when, for him, the world burst into flames and fell in ruins, the thoughts which he entertained for me were still those of a friend.
His actions proved it.
So much the better. I am glad to think that to the burden of his fear there was not added the bitterness of one who thinks he has been betrayed.
I don’t say that the role I played was a noble one. It was not. Where things of the heart are concerned men mostly become selfish. But although my actions had been dictated by my own interests, I had for long been in doubt as to whether I need entirely reproach myself for the course which I took.
I had argued that I had acted, at first, perfectly legitimately, and that by the time the moment for sacrifice had arrived, only a saint could have found the strength to make it.
If you lead a normal life in a town such as London, if you can call town life normal, which I doubt, you can get away from your conscience to some extent. I could, anyway. There are plenty of distractions.
But it was different when I was back there that evening.
When you go back, as I did, and see the ghosts, and one ghost in particular, and see him as he was, and remember all that happened in later years, you come face to face with yourself.
Arguments which have formerly held good begin to fall away. Doubts creep in, slimily, from behind, and you’ve got to round on them and grab them by the throat and throttle them, if you can, or they trample you down.
So the truth begins to emerge.