That is my crime.

And these zealous inquisitors, so intent on condemning my work, have failed to discover therein any grave fault, any flagrant inexactness.

Their severity has had to content itself with a few inadvertences and with a few printer's errors.

What flatterers could better have gratified "the proud weakness of my heart ?"[1] PARIS, _January, 1909_.
[Footnote 1: "_De mon coeur l'orgueilleuse faiblesse_," Racine, _Iphigenie en Aulide_, Act i, sc.

i .-- (W.S.)].