d some business to attend to in a neighboring room and sat there an
hour and listened to them. The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrel
with Smith and force him to fight with me; I turned my back on him while
he was talking; then he came to me with a look of surprise on his face,
holding out his hand. When I was alone in the night and every one slept,
I felt a strong desire to go to Brigitte's desk and take from it her
papers. On one occasion I was obliged to go out of the house in order
to resist the temptation. One day I felt like arming myself with a knife
and threatening to kill them if they did not tell me why they were so
sad; another day I turned all this fury against myself. With what shame
do I write it! And if any one should ask me why I acted thus, I could
not reply.

To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myself
miserable, to pass entire days with my ear at the keyhole, and the
night in a flood of tears, to repeat over and over that I should die of
sorrow, to feel isolation and feebleness uprooting hope in my heart,
to imagine that I was spying when I was only listening to the feverish
beating of my own pulse; to con over stupid phrases, such as: "Life is
a dream, there is nothing stable here below;" to curse and blaspheme
God through misery and through caprice: that was my joy, the precious
occupation for which I renounced love, the air of heaven, and liberty!

Eternal God, liberty! Yes, there were certain moments when, in spite of
all, I still thought of it. In the midst of my madness, eccentricity,
and stupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at times
brought me to myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as I
came from my dungeon; it was a page of a book I read when, in my bitter
days, I happened to read something besides those modern sycophants
called pamphleteers, who, out of regard for the public health, ought to
be prevented from indulging in their crude philosophizings. Since I have
referred to these good moments, let me mention one of them, they were so
rare. One evening I was reading the Memoirs of Constant; I came to the
following lines:

"Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince Christian, had his leg
broken by a shell in the battle of Wagram. He lay almost lifeless on the
dusty field. Fifteen paces distant, Amedee of Kerbourg, aide-de-camp (I
have forgotten to whom), wounded in the breast by a bullet, fell to the
ground vomiting blood. Salsdorf sa