They died, and a sudden and dread solitude, a vast and empty dreariness, settled upon my dungeon.

One old servant only, who had attended me from my childhood, who had known me in my short privilege of light, by whose recollections my mind could grope back its way through the dark and narrow passages of memory to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained to me of human sympathies.

It did not suffice, however, to content me with a home where my father and my mother's kind voice were _not_.

A restless impatience, an anxiety to move, possessed me, and I set out from my home, journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could change an air that weighed upon me like a palpable burden.

I took only this old attendant as my companion; he too died three months since at Bruxelles, worn out with years.