Clerval then put the letter into my hands.
I recalled the horrors I had once perceived as beautiful, the fiend that had led to the deprivation of my health. Once, I thought to devote my life to reversing the corruption of the body, and I was astonished to find my devotion corrupted my own. What I created had once been the subject of an uncontainable ardour, now replaced with disgust beyond words. Could I have been so blinded that I thought to bestow human life upon the dead? The thought that I could birth such a creature filled my soul with an unbearable loathing, and I thrusted the letter back upon dear Clerval.
Clerval looked at me with apparent dismay and attributed my madness to the lingering shadow of my illness. After he had been occupied in my sick room for the whole winter, I could only hope he could forgive my sudden aversion towards my family. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "what is the cause of this? Your cousin and uncle have spent a long winter uneasy from your silence, do you not owe it to them to at least glance at what they have written?"
Although the thought of my father and cousin filled me with such warmth and tenderness, the comforting sensation was soon replaced with the unforgiving sting of guilt as the image of the wretch came to my mind. If I perceived what my dear cousin had written to me, should I only be inclined to follow her? No doubt the product of my sin should follow me in such a manner; the perversion of nature I had so naively birthed had been condemned to this earth surely to punish me. Perhaps the villain stood below the window of my apartment as I contemplated the rolled letter under the scrutiny of dear, poor Henry.
"Flee with me!" I exclaimed. I trembled excessively as I gathered my belongings, only to find Clerval had remained unmoving in his seat. He beheld me with such confusion, the eagerness that had invigorated my muscles threatened to abandon me. "Fly from this city," I pleaded, yet unable to articulate further in fear of giving voice to my crime. "Do not ask me why! Oh, Henry how I hate to entreat you to trust me in this manner. I dread to think that you might perceive me as selfish!"
Before my regret could manipulate my actions, I felt the familiar warmth of my dear friend's hand placed around my arm. I turned, fearful at the thought that I might find concern stricken across his face, only to find nothing more than kindness there. Filled with the warmth only a dear friend could induce, I nearly collapsed with relief. I recollected myself enough to observe his feelings towards my irrational suggestion. Once more, instead of doing harm, Clerval performed the kindest action in his power; he left me to gather what little belongings he had carried with him, joining them with my own. I could not express my gratitude in words in the face of his selflessness, instead weeping in relief.
"Compose yourself," said Clerval, "are you not a dear friend deserving of my trust? I will fly from this city with you. I only ask that you swear to respond to your poor cousin."
He searched me for an answer when met with my stagnant silence, for I cannot describe the uneasiness I felt towards writing to my family. I feared contact with my dear cousin could only result in that demon finding and destroying what I hold dear; even speaking of them filled me with grief, that I might taunt the misfortune that had befallen me and evoke the presence of the vile demon. Yet, Clerval's selflessness proved fatal to my preference for solitude, and I agreed to write to my cousin and father.
"I will write to my family and relieve them of their anxiety," I said. "They will receive their response when I deem it safe, far from Ingolstadt."
"Safe?" exclaimed Clerval. "Dearest Victor, what could you possibly mean by safe?" He darted towards the curtained window to perceive this invisible threat before my grasp stopped his movements. My paranoia conjured the image of the villain I had created once more and I shook my head.
"Could there be a villain that is tormenting you?" said Clerval, attempting once more to perceive what demon could be lying beyond the window. "Should we just allow him to render you into despair? Show yourself, villain!"
I could not conceive what fate could possibly be worse than having Clerval quit me by the knowledge of my crime. My imagination conjured the image of myself months ago, emaciated as I toiled beneath the earth in my pursuit to break the boundary between life and death. In my fantasy, Clerval looked on in disgust as I animated lifeless matter.
"The madness!" said I with an agitated laugh that betrayed the gloominess of my countenance. "O God! The madness! Conjuring spectres all about. Come, dear Henry, will you still follow me, as wretched as I am?"
"I will," he said with a resolute nod after a period of notable silence. "But why flee Ingolstadt? What do you intend to do? Will we return to Geneva?"
"Perhaps," I said, fearing my excessive trembling might betray my lie.
Though it harmed me to leave M. Waldman and M. Krempe with little less than a proper farewell, I was unwilling to spend another moment in the city I had unleashed such a demonic evil in. The last two years that had been spent arduously bending to the whims of my project had once filled me with a soothing joy, a moment in time I could no longer return to. Oh, how guilt plagued me as I led Clerval to blindly follow me as we fled from the city. His gaze lingered towards my empty apartment, perhaps contemplating the horrors I had hidden behind the walls.
The coach carried us from Ingolstadt as Clerval bitterly lamented our departure, and as I bid silent farewell to the high white steeples of the town, my dearest friend voiced a question I had not yet concerned myself with.
"Where will we go?"
I dared not think to lead the fiend I had given life to to any victims, as I surmised his lust for blood must be unmatched. My mind returned to the solitude I had craved for so long, but instead of perceiving my empty apartment in Ingolstadt, my imagination conjured the desolate waves of the troubled sea across from the glittering peaks of a mountain. No human, no devil dared inhabit the summit.
"To Mont Blanc," I said.