“I dined alone. I ate little, Charlotte. Last year, I dined at your bedside, and I remember that when our dinner had been served, you told me an anecdote about the little Prince which made me cry. This year I did not cry at dinner; but I felt even sadder than I had felt then. The solitude and isolation, and the want of intimate friends, made me doubly sad. But I must not let myself think of myself. A voice ordered me to do as I did and I was bound to follow it--’twas the voice of Right and Well-doing.” * * * * * _Before going to bed._ “I want to talk to you one moment longer about this sad day, now that it is wrapped in night’s shadows. The crime is committed, and I bury it in the bottom of my heart; the memory of it lives there for ever; but I will speak no more of it, Charlotte. All to-day I was Her’s alone; I forgot every one else, and I lived only for my old friends, just as if I were not in Russia at all. M. de Crussol came while I was at supper, and at half-past eleven he told me, without my in the least wanting to know, where he had supped....” * * * * * _Morning of the 17th._ “Many things have happened to distract me since I came here, my Charlotte, as you may see from the fact of my having written to you on the tenth, 7th August, without noticing the date. I should never forgive myself for it, if I had really forgotten, if those events had not been as present to my poor heart as they always are, and always will be, I should be angry with myself; and I should tell you the truth quite frankly, even if I were to lose by doing so what I should not wish to have on false pretences--but that fault (if it was one) was not through want of heart. No! I can answer for my heart; it is good and true. Since you wished it, I wish I had written to you on St. Louis’ day; but I would swear that I never _did_ write to you unless it was mail-day; and that that was the first time I wrote to you several days running. The sad circumstance was certainly enough for one to do something out of the way. Don’t scold me, if you can help it. You’re really too fond of scolding. To-day it’s about a watch; the next, about yourself! My dear, you are very good at curing one of little fancies; you’ve quite cured me of mine for my little watch, and I no longer think at all of the pleasure it used to give me; but only of what it gives you, since it comes from me. You must admit that that’s a very nice way of speaking about a sacrifice, for I won’t conceal from you that it _was_ one for me. And as to your watch, Charlotte, I think the watchmaker must have sold it--I’ve been vainly asking for it, for the last six weeks. When you write several sheets _do_ number them....” “St. Petersburg, November 6 (1797).