world. To be alone! Ever, and for ever alone! Madame de B. had owned it, and I repeated the words over and over. What cared I to be alone, but a few minutes before. I knew it not, I felt it not; I had need of the beings that I loved, but I was unconscious of their not wanting me. Now my eyes were opened, and with misfortune came mistrust into my soul.

When I returned to Madame de B.'s apartment, every body was struck with the change in my appearance. I pretended to be ill, and was believed. Madame de B. sent for her physician, Barthez, who felt my pulse, questioned me carefully, and then abruptly declared that nothing ailed me. This quieted the uneasiness of my benefactress about my health; but she sought every means of diverting my mind. I dare not own how little gratitude I felt for her care. My heart seemed withered in itself. As long as it had received favours with pleasure, it gladly acknowledged the benefit; but now filled with the bitterest feelings, it had no power to expand. My days were spent in the same thoughts, differently combined and under various forms, but still the blackest my imagination could invent. Often were my nights passed in weeping. I exhausted my whole pity upon myself.—My face was become odious to me;—I no longer dared to look in a glass;—and my black hands struck me with horror;—they appeared to me like a monkey's. I dwelt upon the idea of my ugliness, and my colour appeared to me the sign of my reprobation: it was that alone which separated me from the rest of my fellow creatures, and condemned me to live alone, and never to be loved.—That a man should perhaps consent for the sake of money to have negro children! My blood rose with indignation at the idea. I thought for a moment of entreating Madame de B. to send me back to my own country;—but even there I should have felt isolated.—Who would have understood me? Who would have sympathised with my feelings? Alas! I belonged to no one—I was estranged from the whole world!

It was not until long after that I understood the possibility of being reconciled to such a fate. Madame de B. was no devotee; she had had me instructed in the duties of my religion by a respectable priest, from whom I imbibed my only notions on the subject. They were as sincere as my own character; but I was not aware that piety is of no succour, unless mingled with the daily actions of life. I had devoted a few moments of each day to its practice, but left it a stranger to the rest. My confessor was an indulgent, unsuspicious old man, whom I saw twice or thrice a year; but as I did not imagine that my grief could be a fault I never mentioned it to him; meanwhile it continued to undermine mine my health, though, strange to say, it perfected my understanding. "What doth the man know who hath not suffered?" says an Eastern sage; and I soon perceived how true this was. What I had taken for ideas were impressions. I did not judge—I liked. I was either pleased or displeased with the words or actions of the persons I lived with, but stopped not to consider why. Since I had found out that the world would reject me, I began to examine and criticise almost every thing that had hitherto enchanted me.

Such a tendency could not escape Madame de B.'s penetration; though I never knew whether she guessed the cause. Possibly she was afraid of letting me confide my chagrin to her, for fear of increasing it; but she was even kinder to me than usual; she entrusted all her thoughts to me, and tried to dissipate my own troubles by busying me with her's. She judged my heart rightly, for nothing could attach me to life but the idea of being necessary or even useful to my benefactress. To be alone, to die, and leave no regret in the soul of any being, was the dread that haunted me: but there I was unjust towards her, for she sincerely loved me; still she had other and superior interests to mine. I did not envy her tenderness for her grandchildren; but, oh! how I longed like them to call her mother!

Family ties, above all, brought distressing recollections over me. I! who was doomed never to be the sister, wife, or mother of any human being! Perhaps I fancied these ties more endearing than they really were; and because they were out of my reach, I foolishly neglected those that were not. But I had no friend, no confidant. My feeling for Madame de B. was that of worship rather than of affection; but I believe that I felt the utmost love of a sister for Charles. His studies were nearly finished, and he was setting out on his travels with his eldest brother and their governor. They were to be two years absent, and were to visit Italy, Germany, and England. Charles was delighted to travel, and I was too well accustomed to rejoice at what gave him pleasure, to feel any grief until the moment of our parting. I never told him the distress that preyed upon me. We did not see each other alone, and it would have taken me some time to explain my grief to him. He would then have understood me, I am sure. His manners were mild and grave, but he had a propensity to ridicule that intimidated me; not that he ever gratified it but at the expense of affectation. Sincerity completely disarmed him. However, I kept my secret; besides, the chagrin of our parting was a relief to my mind, to which any grief was more welcome than its accustomed one.

A short time after Charles' departure, the revolution began to assume a serious turn: the great moral and political interests that were agitated by it to their very source were daily discussed in Madame de B.'s drawing-room. These were debates that superior minds delighted in; and what could better form my own, than the contemplation of an arena where men of distinguished talents were struggling against opinions long since received, and investigating every subject, examining the origin of every institution, unfortunately, to destroy and shake them from their very foundation.

Will you believe that, young as I was, without any share in the interests of society, and nourishing my own wound in secret, the revolution brought some change in my ideas, created a glimmering ray of hope in them, and for a while, suspended their bitterness. It appeared to me that, in the general confusion, my situation might change; and that, when all ranks were levelled, fortunes upset, and prejudices done away with, I might find myself less isolated in this new order of things; and that, if I did possess any hidden qualities or superiority of mind, my colour would no longer single me out, and prevent their being appreciated: but it happened that these very qualities quickly opposed my illusion. I could not desire my own happiness at the expense of the misfortune of thousands; besides, I daily witnessed the folly of persons who were struggling against events that they could not control. I saw through the weakness of such characters, and guessed their secret views. Their false philanthropy did not long deceive me, and I quite gave up my hopes when I found that they would still feel contempt for me, even in the midst of the severest adversity. The days were gone when each sought to please, and remembered that the only means of doing so in society is the very unconsciousness of one's own success.

No sooner did the revolution cease to be a grand theory,—no sooner did it menace the interests of every high individual, than conversation degenerated into dispute, and reasoning was exchanged for bitter personality. Sometimes, in spite of my dejection, I could not help being amused by the sudden violence of opinions which were excited by ambition, affectation, or fear; but gaiety that is occasioned by the observation of folly in others is too malignant to do good: the heart delights in innocent joys, and the mirth of ridicule, far from dispelling misfortune, is more likely to proceed from it, as it feeds upon the same bitterness of soul.

My hopes in the revolution having quickly vanished, I remained dissatisfied as before with my situation. Madame de B.'s friendship and confidence were my only solace.