“And a day will come—­and perhaps it is not far away—­when in my turn I too shall go, leaving my dear Annette alone in the world, as mamma has left me to-day.  How sad all this is, how hard, and cruel!  Yet one never thinks about it; we never look about us to see death take someone every instant, as it will soon take us.  If we should look at it, if we should think of it, if we were not distracted, rejoiced, or blinded by all that passes before us, we could no longer live, for the sight of this endless massacre would drive us mad.

“I am so crushed, so despairing, that I have no longer strength to do anything.  Day and night I think of my poor mamma, nailed in that box, buried beneath that earth, in that field, under the rain, whose old face, which I used to kiss with so much happiness, is now only a mass of frightful decay!  Oh, what horror!

“When I lost papa, I was just married, and I did not feel all these things as I do to-day.  Yes, pity me, think of me, write to me.  I need you so much just now.

“ANNE.”

“Paris, July 25.

“MY POOR FRIEND:  Your grief gives me horrible pain, and life no longer seems rosy to me.  Since your departure I am lost, abandoned, without ties or refuge.  Everything fatigues me, bores me and irritates me.  I am ceaselessly thinking of you and Annette; I feel that you are both far, far away when I need you near me so much.

“It is extraordinary how far away from me you seem to be, and how I miss you.  Never, even in my younger days, have you been my all, as you are at this moment.  I have foreseen for some time that I should reach this crisis, which must be a sun-stroke in Indian summer.  What I feel is so very strange that I wish to tell you about it.  Just fancy that since your absence I cannot take walks any more!  Formerly, and even during the last few months, I liked very much to set out alone and stroll along the street, amusing myself by looking at people and things, and enjoying the mere sight of everything and the exercise of walking.  I used to walk along without knowing where I was going, simply to walk, to breathe, to dream.  Now, I can no longer do this.  As soon as I reach the street I am oppressed by anguish, like the fear of a blind man that has lost his dog.  I become uneasy, exactly like a traveler that has lost his way in the wood, and I am compelled to return home.  Paris seems empty, frightful, alarming.  I ask myself:  ‘Where am I going?’ I answer myself:  ‘Nowhere, since I am still walking.’  Well, I cannot, for I can no longer walk without some aim.  The bare thought of walking straight before me wearies and bores me inexpressibly.  Then I drag my melancholy to the club.