My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to day
the record of his life. That book lay on the table, and I saw that it
was open; I kneeled before it; on the page were these words and no more:

"Adieu, my son, I love you and I die."

I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollen
and my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving.

He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow and
anxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies.
His advice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influenced
my entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and
kindness. I supposed that before dying he wished to see me to try once
more to turn me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly;
he felt that he could express all he had to say in one word, and he wrote
in his book that he loved me.




CHAPTER II

THE BALM OF SOLITUDE

A little wooden railing surrounded my father's grave. According to his
expressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery. Every day I
visited his tomb and passed part of the day on a little bench in the
interior of the vault. The rest of the time I lived alone in the house
in which he died, and kept with me only one servant.