Yet I feel myself to-day a little more deeply impregnated than ever
before with that vague melancholy which life distils. The economy
of my intelligence (I dare scarcely confess it to myself!) has
remained disturbed ever since that momentous hour in which the
existence of the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander was first revealed
to me.

It is strange that I should have lost my rest simply on account of
a few old sheets of parchment; but it is unquestionably true. The
poor man who has no desires possesses the greatest of riches; he
possesses himself. The rich man who desires something is only a
wretched slave. I am just such a slave. The sweetest pleasures--
those of converse with some one of a delicate and well-balanced
mind, or dining out with a friend--are insufficient to enable me
to forget the manuscript which I know that I want, and have been
wanting from the moment I knew of its existence. I feel the want
of it by day and by night: I feel the want of it in all my joys
and pains; I feel the want of it while at work or asleep.

I recall my desires as a child. How well I can now comprehend the
intense wishes of my early years!

I can see once more, with astonishing vividness, a certain doll
which, when I was eight years old, used to be displayed in the
window of an ugly little shop of the Rue de Seine. I cannot tell
how it happened that this doll attracted me. I was very proud of
being a boy; I despised little girls; and I longed impatiently for
the day (which alas! has come) when a strong beard should bristle
on my chin. I played at being a soldier; and, under the pretext