Now I will have a talk with myself about Polyxena. About the guilt which cannot be extinguished, not if Clytemnestra were to murder me twenty times over. Polyxena was the last name spoken between Aeneas and me, the occasion of our last (perhaps our only) misunderstanding. He believed that it was on her account that I could not leave with him, and he tried to convince me that I could not help my dead sister by staying. But I knew that, if I knew anything. We did not have time to finish talking about my refusal to go with him, which had to do not with the past but with the future. Aeneas is alive. He will learn of my death. If he is the same man I love, he will continue to wonder why I chose captivity and death rather than him. Perhaps he will understand even without my help what it was that I had to reject at the cost of my life: submission to a role contrary to my nature.