"And besides," added he, "by the mercy of God he is beginning to grow old, his mind is getting dull, and he is more credulous than formerly. So I have easily persuaded him that I will never forgive you, as long as I live, for the death of my dog. Then again, he is growing hard of hearing, and sleeps like a top. Sometimes to disturb his sleep, I amuse myself by imitating the bark of Vorace but I have the trouble of my pains. The only sound which he never fails to hear, is the ringing of my father's bell. I admit, however, that if anyone presumed to touch his great ugly oak door, he would wake up with a start. This is because his door is his property, his object, his fixed idea: he has a way of looking at it, which seems to say: 'you see this door? it is mine.' I believe, that in his eyes there is nothing lovelier in the world than a closed door. So he cherishes this horrible, this infamous door: he smiles on it benignly, he counts its nails and covers them with kisses." "And you say that after nine o'clock he never comes up here?" "Never, never. I should like to see him attempt it!" cried he, raising his head with an indignant air. "You see then, that he is a jailer capable of behaving handsomely. I imagine that you do not like him much; but after all, in keeping you under lock and key, he is only obeying orders." "And I tell you he is happy in making me suffer. The wicked man has done but one good action in his whole life,--that was in saving you from the fury of Vorace. In consideration of this good action, I no longer tell him what I think of him, but I think it none the less, and it seems to me very singular that you should ask me to love him." "Excuse me, I do not ask you to love him, but to believe that, at heart, he loves you." At these words he became so furious, that I hastened to change the subject. "Don't you sometimes regret Vorace?" "It was his duty to guard me against bugaboos, but I have had no fear of them, since one of them has become my friend. "I am superstitious, I believe in ghosts; but I defy them to approach my bed hereafter." He blushed and did not finish the sentence. Poor child! the painful misery of his destiny, far from quenching his imagination, has excited it to intoxication, and I am not surprised that he shapes friendship to the romantic turn of his thoughts. "You're mistaken," I said to him, "it is not my image, it is botany which guards you against spirits. There is no better remedy for foolish terrors than the study of nature." "Always the pedant," he exclaimed, throwing his cap in my face. July 23rd.