and, without constraint, gave that turn to my descriptions which most
flattered my imagination.

At present my head and memory are become so weak as to render me almost
incapable of every kind of application: my present undertaking is the
result of constraint, and a heart full of sorrow. I have nothing to
treat of but misfortunes, treacheries, perfidies, and circumstances
equally afflicting. I would give the world, could I bury in the
obscurity of time, every thing I have to say, and which, in spite of
myself, I am obliged to relate. I am, at the same time, under the
necessity of being mysterious and subtle, of endeavoring to impose and of
descending to things the most foreign to my nature. The ceiling under
which I write has eyes; the walls of my chamber have ears. Surrounded by
spies and by vigilant and malevolent inspectors, disturbed, and my
attention diverted, I hastily commit to paper a few broken sentences,
which I have scarcely time to read, and still less to correct. I know
that, notwithstanding the barriers which are multiplied around me, my
enemies are afraid truth should escape by some little opening. What
means can I take to introduce it to the world? This, however, I attempt
with but few hopes of success. The reader will judge whether or not such
a situation furnishes the means of agreeable descriptions, or of giving
them a seductive coloring! I therefore inform such as may undertake to
read this work, that nothing can secure them from weariness in the
prosecution of their task, unless it be the desire of becoming more fully
acquainted with a man whom they already know, and a sincere love of
justice and truth.

In my first part I brought down my narrative to my departure with
infinite regret from Paris, leaving my heart at Charmettes, and, there
building my last castle in the air, intending some day to return to the