security of his mind, and even the very form of his personality. At the bottom of all these recol- lections, amid this host of figures among whom he -wanders, a phantom of himself, he finds nothing to work upon but filth, — that is, suffering. He laughs often, but his laugh is forced. This laugh does not come from joy found or from hope real- ized, and it shows the bitter grimace of rebellion, the hard and contracted curve of sarcasm. Noth- ing is more sorrowful and ugly than this laugh; it burns and withers. It would have been better, per- haps, if I had wept. And then, I do not know. And then, zut ! Come what will.

But nothing comes at all, — never anything. And I cannot accustom myself to that. It is this monotony, this absolute fixity in life, that is the hardest thing; for me to endure. I should like to go away from here. Go away? But where and how? I do not know, and I stay.

Madame is always the same; distrustful, me- thodical, severe, rapacious, without an impulse, without a caprice, without a particle of spontaneity, without a ray of joy upon her marble face. Mon- sieur has resumed his habits, and I imagine, from certain sullen airs, that he has a spite against me because of my severity; but his spites are not dangerous. After breakfast, armed and gaitered.