To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myself miserable,
to pass entire days with my ear to the keyhole and the night in a flood
of tears, to repeat over and over that I would die of sorrow, to feel
isolation and feebleness uprooting hope in my heart, to imagine that I
was spying when I was only listening to the feverish beating of my own
pulse; to con over stupid phrases, such as: "Life is a dream, there is
nothing stable here below;" to curse and blaspheme God through misery and
through caprice: that was my joy, the precious occupation for which I
renounced love, the air of heaven, and liberty!
Eternal God, liberty! Yes, there were certain moments when, in spite of
all, I still thought of it. In the midst of my madness, eccentricity, and
stupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at times brought me
to myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as I came from my
dungeon; it was a page of a book I read when, in my bitter days, I
happened to read something besides those modern sycophants called
pamphleteers, and who, out of regard for the public health, ought to be
prevented from indulging in their crude philosophizing. Since I have
referred to these good moments, let me mention one of them, they were so
rare. One evening, I was reading the "Memoirs of Constant"; I came to the
following lines:
"Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince Christian, had his leg
broken by a shell in the battle of Wagram.
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