I do not mistake myself, Chevalier [he wrote], nor these late doings
of mine. What credit shall I take to myself for coming to place and
some little fame? Everything has been with me: the chance of
inheritance, the glory of a cause as hopeless as splendid, and more
splendid because hopeless; and the luck of him who loads the dice--
for all my old comrades, the better men, are dead, and I, the least
of them all, remain, having even outlived the cause. What praise
shall I take for this? None--from all decent fellows of the earth,
none at all. It is merely laughable that I should be left, the
monument of a sacred loyalty greater than the world has ever known.

I have no claims--But let me draw the picture, dear Chevalier. Here
was a discredited, dissolute fellow whose life was worth a pin to
nobody. Tired of the husks and the swine, and all his follies grown
stale by over-use, he takes the advice of a good gentleman, and
joins the standard of work and sacrifice. What greater luxury shall
man ask? If this be not running the full scale of life's enjoyment,
pray you what is? The world loves contrasts. The deep-dyed sinner
raising the standard of piety is picturesque. If, charmed by his
own new virtues, he is constant in his enthusiasm, behold a St.
Augustine! Everything is with the returned prodigal--the more so if
he be of the notorious Vaufontaines, who were ever saints turned
sinners, or sinners turned saints.

Tell me, my good friend, where is room for pride in me? I am
getting far more out of life than I deserve; it is not well that you
and others should think better of me than I do of myself. I do not
pretend that I dislike it, it is as balm to me. But it would seem
that the world is monstrously unjust. One day when I'm grown old--I