new form of evil — for there is little that I have not experi-
enced. Some day, mon ami, I will tell you things that are
not to be found in the novels of Prdvost or Eichardson. My
history is made up of fatal circumstances which prove to
me that the true is often the most unlikely. The heroines
of novels have little to say about their education; mine
deserves to be written down for its singularity. Some even-
ing, next winter, when we ar^ very sad and inclined to reflec-
tion, I will give you the pastime of listening to a written
paper which would interest you if you found it in a book,
though it will inspire you with a great horror of the
human species. Ah ! how cruel mankind are ! tigers are
kind compared with them. I ought naturally to devote
myself to hating; I have ill-fulfilled my destiny; I have
loved much and hated little. Mon Dieu ! mon ami, I am a
hundred years old; this life of mine which looks to be so
uniform, so monotonous, has been a prey to all misfortunes,
exposed to all the villanous passions which stir the un-
worthy — but where am I wandering ? wholly given to you
whom I love, who sustain and defend my life, why do I
cast my eyes on objects which made me detest it?
Man ami, I have no news of you. I said to myself a hundred times: "He must have arrived very late; he would not think of the value of a single hour to me." That makes a difference of four days; I am now postponed till Wednesday ! Well ! the pains I have taken not to let my soul rest on that hope have served for nothing. The courier has arrived; I received three letters ; but I could not read them because yours was missing. Mon Dieu! you are neither happy enough nor unhappy enough to experience that feeling. Mon ami, if I do not hear from you next Wednesday,
