In one of these notices, which appeared, by the way, in a very filthy little newspaper, a certain scamp, guided by wretched gossip and baseless rumours about my chats in our prison, called me a "zealot and liar." Enraged by the insolence of the miserable scribbler, my friends wanted to prosecute him, but I persuaded them not to do it.

Vice is its own proper punishment.
The fortune which my kind mother had left me and which had grown considerably during the time I was in prison has enabled me to settle down to a life of luxury in one of the most aristocratic hotels.

I have a large retinue of servants at my command and an automobile--a splendid invention with which I now became acquainted for the first time--and I have skilfully arranged my financial affairs.

Live flowers brought to me in abundance by my charming lady visitors give to my nook the appearance of a flower garden or even a bit of a tropical forest.

My servant, a very decent young man, is in a state of despair.