A serious passion reveals to us a world within a world.  Thus far, all that I have seen and heard seems to be full of error; men and things assume aspects under which I fail to recognise them.  It seems as though I had yesterday been born a second time, and that my first life has left me nothing but confused recollections, and in this chaos of the past, I vainly seek for a single rule of conduct for the present.  I have dipped into books written on the passions; I have read every sentence, aphorism, drama, tragedy and romance written by the sages; I have sought among the heroes of history and of the stage for the human expression of a sentiment to which my own experience might respond, and which would serve me as a guide or consolation.

I am, as it were, in a desert island where nothing betrays the passage of man, and I am compelled to dwell there without being able to trace the footsteps of those who have gone before.  Yesterday I was present at the representation of the Misanthrope.  I said to myself, here is a man in love; his character is drawn by a master hand, they say; he listens to sonnets, hums a little song, disputes with a bad author, discourses at length with his rivals, sustains a philosophical disputation with a friend, is churlish to the woman he loves, and finally is consoled by saying he will hide himself from the eyes of the world.

I would erect, at my own expense, a monument to Moliere if Alceste would make my love take this form.

I have never seen an inventory of the torments of love—­some of them have the most vulgar and some the most innocent names in the world.  Some poet make his love-sick hero say:—­

  “Un jour, Dieu, par pitie, delivra les enfers
  Des tourments que pour vous, madame, j’ai soufferts!”

I thought the poet intended to develop his idea, but unfortunately the tirade here ends.  ’Tis always very vague, cloudy poetry that describes unknown torments; it seems to be a popular style, however, for all the poetry of the present day is confined to misty complaints in cloudy language.  No moralist is specific in his sorrows.  All lovers cry out in chorus that they suffer horribly.  Each suffering deserves an analysis and a name.  By way of example, my dear Edgar, I will describe one torment that I am sure you have never known or even heard of, happy mortal that you are!

The headquarters of this torment is at the office of the Poste-Restante, on Jean-Jacques-Rousseau street.  The lovers in la Nouvelle Heloise never mentioned this place of torture, although they wrote so many love-letters.

I have opened a correspondence with three of my servants—­this torture, however, is not the one to which I allude.  These three men, at this present moment, are sojourning in the three neighboring towns in which Mlle. de Chateaudun has acquaintances, relations or friends.  One of these towns is Fontainebleau, where she first went when she left Paris.  I have charged them to be very circumspect in obtaining all the information they can concerning her movements.  Her mysterious retreat must be in one of these three localities, so I watch them all.  I told them to direct all my letters to the Poste-Restante.