was constantly urging me to go to see Piccini, and also Caribaldi,—­for there is a miserable opera buffa here,—­but I always said, “No, I will not go a single step,” &c.  In short, he is of the Italian faction; he is insincere himself, and strives to crush me.  This seems incredible, does it not?  But still such is the fact, and I give you the proof of it.  I opened my whole heart to him as a true friend, and a pretty use he made of this!  He always gave me bad advice, knowing that I would follow it; but he only succeeded in two or three instances, and latterly I never asked his opinion at all, and if he did advise me to do anything, I never did it, but always appeared to acquiesce, that I might not subject myself to further insolence on his part.

But enough of this; we can talk it over when we meet.  At all events, Madame d’Epinay has a better heart.  The room I inhabit belongs to her, not to him.  It is the invalid’s room—­that is, if any one is ill in the house, he is put there; it has nothing to recommend it except the view,—­only four bare walls, no chest of drawers—­in fact, nothing.  Now you may judge whether I could stand it any longer.  I would have written this to you long ago, but feared you would not believe me.  I can, however, no longer be silent, whether you believe me or not; but you do believe me, I feel sure.  I have still sufficient credit with you to persuade you that I speak the truth.  I board too with Madame d’Epinay, and you must not suppose that he pays anything towards it, but indeed I cost her next to nothing.  They have the same dinner whether I am there or not, for they never know when I am to be at home, so they can make no difference for me; and at night I eat fruit and drink one glass of wine.  All the time I have been in their house, now more than two months, I have not dined with them more than fourteen times at most, and with the exception of the fifteen louis-d’or, which I mean to repay with thanks, he has no outlay whatever on my account but candles, and I should really be ashamed of myself more than of him, were I to offer to supply these; in fact I could not bring myself to say such a thing.  This is my nature.  Recently, when he spoke to me in such a hard, senseless, and stupid way, I had not nerve to say that he need not be alarmed about his fifteen louis-d’or, because I was afraid of offending him; I only heard him calmly to the end, when I asked whether he had said all he wished—­and then I was off!  He presumes to say that I must leave this a week hence—­in such haste is he.  I told him it was impossible, and my reasons for saying so.  “Oh! that does not matter; it is your father’s wish.”  “Excuse me, in his last letter he wrote that he would let me know in his next when I was to set off.”  “At all events hold yourself in readiness for your journey.”  But I must tell you plainly that it will be impossible for me to leave this before the beginning of next month,