which had been left on his table during his absence; it ran thus:


"Man of great phrases, I write to you to inform you of the hatred
with which you inspire me. I wish you to understand that from the
first day I saw you, your bearing, your face, your manners, your
whole person, have been objects of distrust and aversion to me. I
thought I recognized an enemy in you, and the result has proved
that I was not mistaken. Now I hate you, and I tell you so
frankly, for I am not a hypocrite, and I want you to know, that
just now in my prayers I supplicated St. George to give me an
opportunity of revenging myself upon you. What do you want in this
house? What is there between us and you? How long do you intend
to torture me with your odious presence, your ironical smiles, and
your insulting glances? Before your arrival I was not completely
unhappy. God be praised, it has been reserved for you to give me
the finishing stroke. Before, I could weep at my ease, with none
to busy themselves in counting my tears; the man that makes me shed
them does not lower himself to such petty calculations; he has
confidence in me, he knows that at the end of the year the account
will be there; but you! you watch me, you pry into me, you study
me. I see very well that, while you are looking at me, you are
indulging in little dialogues with yourself, and these little
dialogues are insupportable to me. Mark me now, I forbid you to
understand me. It is an affront which you have no right to put
upon me, and I have the right to be incomprehensible if it pleases
me. Ah! once a little while ago, I felt that you had your eyes
fastened on me again. And then I raised my head, and looked at you
steadily and forced you to blush. . . . Yes, you did blush; do not
attempt to deny it! What a consolation to me! What a triumph!