On the 11th of January, my first thought on
waking was to make an end of my painful task;
when I had lighted the lamp, I felt my courage
oozing away. I was obliged to have recourse
to a new remedy with which I ought to have
been able to dispense. Instead of breakfasting
as usual on boiled milk and potatoes, I took a
little bread and wine. This regimen restored a
certain degree of firmness which I cannot ascribe
to my own personal character, but of which I
took advantage without delay. I had well
considered the means of execution, and everything
had been prepared the day before.

Oh, my dear grandfather, when you taught me,
in front of your house, to transport a heavy body
by the employment of rollers, we little thought
that I should apply your lessons on so sad an
occasion as this. The remembrance of what you
then told me was completely refreshed in my
memory. I could hear the sound of your voice,
in imagination; and when the funereal burden
nodded its head, as if in sign of approbation, I
was so overcome that I turned my eyes away,
like a person who dreads to look over the brink
of a precipice.

The way was smoothed: the body was soon
beside the grave. The most easy way would
have been to let it fall in; but I could not make
up my mind to treat it with so little reverence.
Every difficulty being vanquished at last, what
then remained to be done gave me but little
uneasiness. I could freely give way to my grief.
Seated on the mound which I had raised with
my own hands, I wept abundantly by the side
of that open grave. I could not resolve to
throw in the first shovelfuls of earth without
performing some sort of funeral service. I
knelt, and searched my memory for passages of
Scripture suitable to the occasion. I took the
Bible, being sufficiently acquainted with it to
find fitting portions, and such as my grandfather
would have pointed out. While reading aloud,
it appeared to me as if I had quitted my solitude.
The holy volume responded to my emotion. At
last I stopped, through exhaustion; I collected
my thoughts, and no longer deferred what
remained to be done. In a short space of time,
the grave was filled. I spent the rest of the day
in carving with the point of my knife the following
inscription on a small tablet of maple-wood:

Here rests the body of Louis Lopraz, who died in
the night of the 7th-8th of January, in the arms of
his grandson Louis Lopraz, who buried him with his
own hands.

I nailed the tablet to a stake, which I planted
on the mound over the grave; after which I
closed the door and returned to the kitchen,
where Blanchette is my only company.
Nevertheless, although I feel more at ease now the
body is no longer lying on the bed, I find that
some remains of weakness still linger in my
mind. I combat them by paying frequent visits
to the grave, and always without a light. I
have resolved to say my prayers there night and
morning.

January 15.—Yes; my position is greatly
changed; I become more and more aware of it
every day. I had a friend and a companion, and
yet I dared to complain! God is punishing me
for my former discontent. I am left alone—all
alone! This thought pursues me the whole day
long.

January 16.—I cannot shake off my weakness.
I left my bed in a state of languor and
discouragement, which continues. I write merely for
writing's sake. If I told the whole truth, this
journal would now be filled with a melancholy
picture of despair. I have hardly the energy to
guide my pen. My first distress when we were
made prisoners here, my fright when the wolves
threatened to devour us, and the sad scenes of
my grandfather's death and burial, were as
nothing compared with the prostration of
strength into which I have fallen. I had no
conception of this kind of suffering. Even
prayer does not help me out of it.

January 24.—Providence, to drag me out of
the weariness of ennui, has sent a new source of
disquietude. The goat yields a smaller quantity
of milk. I thought I observed it several days
ago; at present, I cannot doubt the fact.

January 25.—My grandfather certainly foresaw
the possibility of my being detained here all
by myself, and gave me several hints how I
should act under such circumstances. One day
he said, "What should we do if Blanchette were
to go dry? It would be absolutely necessary to
pluck up our resolution to kill her, and live on
her flesh as long as we could." He followed
this up with explanations how we should have
to manage, to preserve her flesh. Am I to be
reduced to this cruel extremity?

January 26.—If matters do not grow worse,
I may set my mind at ease. Blanchette still
gives enough milk for my sustenance. I have
several cheeses in store. I have examined the
remainder of my stock, and have spent the day
in calculating how long it would last, if I had
nothing else. It would not carry me through a
fortnight.

January 27.—The yield of milk decreases, and
the goat fattens in proportion. Consequently,
in case of her milk failing, the poor creature is
preparing to sustain my life with her own
substance! I am now haunted by one horrid idea:
shall I be driven to the necessity of turning
butcher? Shall I be obliged, in order to
prolong my own existence, to cut the throat of the
animal which has fed me up to the present? I
have now only a half ration of milk.

February 7.—I have tried every expedient.
Once I got a little more milk by giving her a
triple allowance of salt, which made her drink
more. But it was impossible to go on so;
because I shall require all my salt, if——Poor
Blanchette! I have heard that hens too fat and
well fed, do not lay so abundantly as lean ones;
so I thought I would try the effect of giving my
goat a smaller quantity of hay. But it did not
answer. She yielded still less milk, and I had
the vexation of hearing her bleat half the day.
It is now not worth while milking her twice a
day; so I have waited till the evening, in order
to get a little more. But she will hardly let me