urance, there are moments when one feels some desire to
give oneself up to the devil. Adieu, my dear Marquis, may it fare well
with you, and pray for a poor devil who will betake himself to that
meadow where the asphodels grow if the peace does not take effect."

"1761, _June_.--Do not count upon peace this year. If good fortune does
not abandon me, I shall get out of the business as well as I can; but
next year I shall still have to dance on the tight-rope and make
dangerous bounds when it pleases their very Apostolical, very
Christian, and very Muscovite Majesties to call out, 'Jump, Marquis!'
Ah, how hard-hearted men are! They tell me, 'You have friends.' Yes,
fine friends, who cross their arms and say, 'Indeed, I wish you all
happiness!' 'But I am drowning--hand me a rope!' 'No, you will not
drown.' 'Yet I must sink the very next moment.' 'Oh, we hope the
contrary; but, if it should happen, be assured we would place a
beautiful inscription on your tomb.' Such is the world. These are the
fine compliments with which I am greeted on all sides."

"1762, _Jan_.--I have been so unfortunate throughout this whole war,
with my pen as well as with my sword, that I do not believe in any
fortunate occurrences. Yes; experience is a fine thing. In my youth I
was as ungovernable as a young colt, that gallops about the meadow
without bridle; now I am as cautious as an old Nestor: but I am also
grey and wrinkled with care, and weighed down by bodily suffering; and,
in a word, only good enough to be thrown to the dogs. You have always
admonished me to take care of myself; show me the means, my dear
friend, when one is hauled about as I am. The birds which one delivers
to the wantonness of children, the tops which are whipped by those
little monkeys, are not more tossed about and misused than I am now by
three furious enemies."

"1762, _May_.--I am passing through the school of patience; it is hard,
tedious, terrible, indeed barbarous. I only help myself out of it by
looking on the universe in general, as from a distant planet There
everything appears to me infinitely small, and I pity my enemies for
taking so much trouble about such trifles. Is this old age, is it
reflection, is it reason? I regard all the events of life with far more
indifference than formerly. If there is anything to be done for the
welfare of the State, I can yet apply some strength to it; but, between
ourselves, it is no longer with the fiery vehemence of my yo