One day, as I was examining the latter very minutely, I discovered a drawer with a double bottom. In this secret place was hidden quite a voluminous manuscript. It was the count's journal. These fragments appeared to me remarkable in their spirit of analysis, and by a succession of adventures, very simple, very natural, and perhaps worthy of interest and study, inasmuch as they portray some facts common to the lives of most men. They consist of the following fragmentary sketches, which I will try to give as nearly as possible in all their simplicity and curious scepticism. The memoirs seem to include a period of about twelve years. Although they relate the life of this _inconnu_ from the age of twenty, and seem by the last date to have been continued until the day preceding his death, one can see by the note that the story of the first seven years was written by the count only about five years before his death, while the history of the last five years constitutes a journal written almost day by day, and according to the circumstances. The handwriting of this journal was fine, correct, and often hastily current, as though the hand and mind had been carried away by the rush of memories. At other times it was calm and distinct, as though traced by an iron hand. On the margins were an infinite number of portraits and silhouettes sketched with a pen with much facility and grace, which must have been excellent likenesses. Finally, interpolated here and there were many letters in various handwritings, which were evidently intended to verify the truth of the statements in this singular manuscript. HÉLÈNE CHAPTER IV THE BEREAVEMENT I was twenty years old, and had just returned from a long sojourn in England and in Spain, where I had gone under the guidance of my tutor, a good, modest, firm, and enlightened man. On my return to Serval, our country-seat, where my father had been living for many long years in retirement, I found him seriously ill. Never in my life will I forget the sight of him on my arrival. The château, which was extremely secluded and overlooked a straggling village, raised itself in solitary grandeur on the confines of a great forest. It was a vast Gothic edifice built of bricks which had become black with age. The interior was composed of vast echoing apartments, which were but dimly lighted by their long diamond-paned windows. The servants were all in mourning for my mother, who had died while I was still absent. They were almost all elderly retainers of the house, and nothing could have been more lugubrious than the sight of them walking silently about in those immense gloomy rooms, where their figures were scarcely perceptible against the red or dark green hangings which covered the walls of that ancient habitation.