Had I ever possessed a moderate independence, I am convinced I should have had no propensity to become avaricious.  I should have required no more, and cheerfully lived up to my income; but my precarious situation has constantly and necessarily kept me in fear.  I love liberty, and I loathe constraint, dependence, and all their kindred annoyances.  As long as my purse contains money it secures my independence, and exempts me from the trouble of seeking other money, a trouble of which I have always had a perfect horror; and the dread of seeing the end of my independence, makes me proportionately unwilling to part with my money.  The money that we possess is the instrument of liberty, that which we lack and strive to obtain is the instrument of slavery.  Thence it is that I hold fast to aught that I have, and yet covet nothing more.

My disinterestedness, then, is in reality only idleness, the pleasure of possessing is not in my estimation worth the trouble of acquiring:  and my dissipation is only another form of idleness; when we have an opportunity of disbursing pleasantly we should make the best possible use of it.

I am less tempted by money than by other objects, because between the moment of possessing the money and that of using it to obtain the desired object there is always an interval, however short; whereas to possess the thing is to enjoy it.  I see a thing and it tempts me; but if I see not the thing itself but only the means of acquiring it, I am not tempted.  Therefore it is that I have been a pilferer, and am so even now, in the way of mere trifles to which I take a fancy, and which I find it easier to take than to ask for; but I never in my life recollect having taken a farthing from any one, except about fifteen years ago, when I stole seven francs and ten sous.  The story is worth recounting, as it exhibits a concurrence of ignorance and stupidity I should scarcely credit, did it relate to any but myself.

It was in Paris:  I was walking with M. de Franceul at the Palais Royal; he pulled out his watch, he looked at it, and said to me, “Suppose we go to the opera?”—­“With all my heart.”  We go:  he takes two box tickets, gives me one, and enters himself with the other; I follow, find the door crowded; and, looking in, see every one standing; judging, therefore, that M. de Franceul might suppose me concealed by the company, I go out, ask for my ticket, and, getting the money returned, leave the house, without considering, that by then I had reached the door every one would be seated, and M. de Franceul might readily perceive I was not there.

As nothing could be more opposite to my natural inclination than this abominable meanness, I note it, to show there are moments of delirium when men ought not to be judged by their actions:  this was not stealing the money, it was only stealing the use of it, and was the more infamous for wanting the excuse of a temptation.