I wore it over my heart, a practice much affected by men; but one day, while idly rummaging about a shop filled with curiosities, I found an iron "discipline whip" such as was used by the mediaeval flagellants.

At the end of this whip was a metal plate bristling with sharp iron points; I had the medallion riveted to this plate and then returned it to its place over my heart.

The sharp points pierced my bosom with every movement and caused such strange, voluptuous anguish that I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in order to intensify the sensation.

I knew very well that I was committing a folly; love is responsible for many such idiocies.
But since this woman deceived me I loathed the cruel medallion.

I can not tell with what sadness I removed that iron circlet, and what a sigh escaped me when it was gone.
"Ah! poor wounds!" I said, "you will soon heal, but what balm is there for that other deeper wound ?" I had reason to hate this woman; she was, so to speak, mingled with the blood of my veins; I cursed her, but I dreamed of her.