In spite of a good foundation of sound morals, the natural offspring of the Divine principles which had been early rooted in my heart, I have been throughout my life the victim of my senses; I have found delight in losing the right path, I have constantly lived in the midst of error, with no consolation but the consciousness of my being mistaken.  Therefore, dear reader, I trust that, far from attaching to my history the character of impudent boasting, you will find in my Memoirs only the characteristic proper to a general confession, and that my narratory style will be the manner neither of a repenting sinner, nor of a man ashamed to acknowledge his frolics.  They are the follies inherent to youth; I make sport of them, and, if you are kind, you will not yourself refuse them a good-natured smile.  You will be amused when you see that I have more than once deceived without the slightest qualm of conscience, both knaves and fools.  As to the deceit perpetrated upon women, let it pass, for, when love is in the way, men and women as a general rule dupe each other.  But on the score of fools it is a very different matter.  I always feel the greatest bliss when I recollect those I have caught in my snares, for they generally are insolent, and so self-conceited that they challenge wit.  We avenge intellect when we dupe a fool, and it is a victory not to be despised for a fool is covered with steel and it is often very hard to find his vulnerable part.  In fact, to gull a fool seems to me an exploit worthy of a witty man.  I have felt in my very blood, ever since I was born, a most unconquerable hatred towards the whole tribe of fools, and it arises from the fact that I feel myself a blockhead whenever I am in their company.  I am very far from placing them in the same class with those men whom we call stupid, for the latter are stupid only from deficient education, and I rather like them.  I have met with some of them—­very honest fellows, who, with all their stupidity, had a kind of intelligence and an upright good sense, which cannot be the characteristics of fools.  They are like eyes veiled with the cataract, which, if the disease could be removed, would be very beautiful.

Dear reader, examine the spirit of this preface, and you will at once guess at my purpose.  I have written a preface because I wish you to know me thoroughly before you begin the reading of my Memoirs.  It is only in a coffee-room or at a table d’hote that we like to converse with strangers.

I have written the history of my life, and I have a perfect right to do so; but am I wise in throwing it before a public of which I know nothing but evil?  No, I am aware it is sheer folly, but I want to be busy, I want to laugh, and why should I deny myself this gratification?

   ‘Expulit elleboro morbum bilemque mero.’