Yes, I was misunderstood by my family. Imperceptible proofs started up from the shadows, and grew like clouds chased before the wind. My father was always talking about the absent ones, and when he received news of them he was radiant. Their letters were bulletins of victory. He wore paternal pride upon his forehead. I, I alone, was systematically kept in the background, I was of no consequence. How severely, the other week, he had cried “go away!” Did he know that I was frequenting the circus in spite of his prohibition, and that I peeled potatoes in the public square? If Bernard or Stephen had been the offender he would have come to know it, and would have scolded them, whereas he treated me with outrageous contempt; I, who was bearing the burden of so noble a love, I was treated only with humiliation and insult. Worst of all, worst of all, my father did not love me--nobody loved me. Everything conspired to make me think so, since I had not once met Nazzarena that whole day long! There was only grandfather, and grandfather was absorbed in his conversations, his music, in smoking his pipe, in his telescope and his almanacs. I cast an imploring glance in his direction. Now he was waxing warm with Gallus over a quintette by Schumann. At such a time the world did not exist for him. I would have consented to get along without the existence of the world, provided he would concern himself with me. I had the horrible sensation of being abandoned by every one, and that this man close at hand who insinuated his sympathy in a moved and compassionate voice had just informed me of an irreparable misfortune. I could have cried, but in the face of curious looks I kept back my tears. But on that bench, in that café, I learned to know the sadness of being misunderstood, of solitude in the midst of a crowd, of despair. Life is made up of many griefs; have I ever experienced a more intense pain than this imaginary despair? Thus disarmed by the very tenderness that bared my sensibility to the quick, and fascinated by the serpent, I unconsciously entered into the plot which was being concocted against my father. Having accomplished his purpose--more easily than he had believed possible, for he was unaware that love was his ally--Martinod repeated in a heart-rending tone, “Poor little fellow!” My stifled sobs were suffocating me. He might blazen his triumph abroad, for he had succeeded even beyond his hopes; the seed of his suggestions was destined to spring up later and bear noxious fruit. But had he not found an easy prey?