take a seat by his side, spoke to me warmly about my father and all my
family, whom he knew so well that I was persuaded I was talking with the
master of the chateau.

'You are Monsieur de C----?' I asked him.

He got up, looked at me wildly, and replied, 'I was he, I am he no
longer, I am nothing;' and seeing my astonishment, he exclaimed, 'Not a
word more, young man, don't question me!'

'I must, Monsieur; I have been the involuntary witness of your chagrin
and your grief, and if my attachment and my friendship may to some
degree alleviate'----

'You are right, you are right,' said he; 'you cannot change my fate, but
at the least you may receive my last wishes and my last injunctions ...
it is the only favor I ask of you.'

He shut the door, and again took his seat by my side; I was touched, and
tremblingly expected what he was going to say: he spoke with a grave and
solemn manner. His physiognomy had an expression I had never seen before
on any face. His forehead, which I attentively examined, seemed marked
by fatality; his face was pale; his black eyes sparkled, and
occasionally his features, although changed by pain, would contract in
an ironical and infernal smile. 'What I am going to tell you,' said he,
'will surprise you.' You will doubt me ... you will not believe me ...
even. I doubt it sometimes ... at the least, I would like to doubt it;
but I have got the proofs of it; and there is in everything around us,
in our very organization, a great many other mysteries which we are
obliged to undergo, without being able to understand.' He remained
silent for a moment, as if to collect his ideas, brushed his forehead
with his hand, and then proceeded:

'I was born in this chateau. I had two elder brothers, to whom the
honors and the estates of our house were to descend. I could hope
nothing above the cassock of an abbe, and yet dreams of ambition and of
glory fermented in my head, and quickened the beatings of my heart.
Discontented with my obscurity, eager for fame, I thought of nothing but
the means of acquiring it, and this idea made me insensible to all the
pleasures and all the joys of life. The present was nothing to me; I
existed only in the future; and that future lay before me robed in the
most sombre colors. I was nearly thirty years old, and had done nothing.
Then literary reputations arose from every side in Paris, and their
brilliancy was reflected even to our distant province. 'Ah!' I often
said