Paris is still a desert.  The largest and most populous city becomes obscure and insignificant at your feet when you view it from the heights of an all-absorbing passion.  I feel as isolated as if I were on the South Sea or on the sands of Sahara.  Happily our bodies assume mechanical habits that act instead of the will.  Without this precious faculty of matter my isolation would lead me to a dreamy and stupid immobility.  Thus, in the eyes of strangers, my life is always the same.  They see no change in my manners and appearance; I keep up my acquaintances and pleasures and seek the society of my friends.  I have not the heart to join a conversation, but leave it to be carried on by others.  My fixed attention and absorbed manner of listening convey the idea that I am deeply interested in what is being said, and he who undertakes to relate anything to me is so satisfied with my style of listening that he prolongs to infinity his monologue.  Then my thoughts take flight and travel around the world; to the seas, archipelagoes, continents and deserts I have visited.  These are the only moments of relief that I enjoy, for I have the modesty to refrain from thinking of my love in the presence of others.  I still possess enough innocence of heart to believe that the four letters of this sweetest of all words would be stamped on my brow in characters of fire, thus betraying a secret that indifference responds to with pitying smiles or heartless jeers.

The thousand memories sown here and there in my peregrinations pass so vividly before me, that, standing in the bright sunlight, with eyes open, I dream over again those visions of my sleepless nights in foreign lands.

Thought, ever-rebellious thought, which the most imperious will can neither check nor guide, begins to wander over the world, thus kindly granting a truce to the torments of my passions; then it works to suit my wishes, a complaisance it never shows me when I am alone.  I am indebted for this relief to the officious and loquacious intervention of the first idler I meet, one whose name I scarcely know, although he calls me his friend.  I always gaze with a feeling of compassionate benevolence upon the retreating steps of this unfortunate gossip, who leaves with the idea of having diverted me by his monologue to which my eyes alone have listened.  As a general thing, people whom you meet have started out with one dominant idea or engrossing subject, and they imagine that the universe is disposed to attach the same importance to the matter that they themselves do.  These expectations are often gratified, for the streets are filled by hungry listeners who wander around with ears outstretched, eager to share any and everybody’s secrets.