How dreadful is my fate, Thérèse! I live, I breathe, but _I_, as _I_, do not exist; that _I_ has been buried in an empty coffin, in the angle of two walls of a cemetery. At times I doubt my very senses and all that I am about to relate to you seems the very fabric of a dream,--but then no dream has ever been so long and fearful. 'Tis only my anguish that convinces me of reality. I co-ordinate my memories and perceive that I am _not_ a deluded fool. Once I described my misgivings to a physician in Germany, saying that in believing myself to be another I feared at times that I was demented. He said he had known similar cases and advised me to summon all my mental strength and hold a powerful light to the mirror of my consciousness. "Impostors have there been who were not liars," said the doctor fixing upon me a penetrating look. "Those impostors have believed their asseverations." Thérèse, I appeal to you to rescue me from this appalling phenomenon. And as I am opening my heart to you,--the heart which throbs, not the inert heart which was offered you with the assurance that it had been taken from my dead body and which you refused to accept,--since I conceal nothing from you, Thérèse, O listen! I implore you to convince me that I am a wretched dupe of the Revolution, for perhaps 'twould be best that I should be persuaded that my reason is diseased. Be pitiful, Thérèse, even tho you refuse me love. And now, whether I rave or speak truth, I summon my life's memories even from infancy. I stand in that incomparable summer palace in which we lived before the bursting forth of the Revolution. I walk through the magnificent salons adorned by rare artists, and amid those marvelous gardens wherein the skill of Le Nôtre surpassed itself. But more vivid still than the memories of these splendors is the image of the charming villa of diminutive blue lakes and rustic kiosks and the verdant farm where our mother in simple muslin (how beautiful she was, Thérèse!) delighted to drink fresh milk, gather wild flowers and scatter grain to the birds. How gay we were, you and I, participating in these innocent amusements, in our straw hats and cool white dresses. One day an artist painted us so, and, as I grew restive and troublesome during the sitting, my mother said gently, "Charles Louis, I shall soon know whether or not you love me." This sweet remonstrance quieted me. I so loved my mother that the sound of her voice in singing always brought tears to my eyes.