pandemonium, loaded with irons, and thinking
of my life blighted from no fault of mine, I
should have suffocated with grief, if tears had
not come to my relief. For the first time
since my childhood, I cried myself to sleep.
This morning I feel more resigned and
hopeful.

Second of September. A year has now
elapsed since I was first deprived of my
liberty. Nearly four months I have been
in this awful place. My position is not,
however, so miserable as it was. I have
associated a great deal of late with the
chaplains, who have done much to comfort and
console me. As often as I can obtain leave
I go and see Monsieur, the second chaplain,
who, I fancy is beginning to be convinced
of my innocence. For he does all in his
power to soften in my favour the rigorous
discipline of the bagne. But it is all in
vain; the chiefs think that I am more
dangerous than any of the others, because I
am more quiet; and I am therefore treated
with greater severity. Yet I cannot complain
of my chiefs, for their conduct towards
me is only a consequence of my condemnation.
Nevertheless, in spite of my affliction, which
has saddened me to the very soul, I sometimes
have a ray of hope, a sort of inner voice
which tells me I shall not pass all my life in
the bagne, a chained convict. This hope
sustains me.

Fifth of April, eighteen hundred and
forty-eight. At length, after eleven months
of most intense moral suffering, a happy
change has taken place. Monsieur Edouard
de la Tour, who, I believe, has never doubted
my innocence has at length succeeded in
obtaining an improvement in my position.
On my coming here he recommended me to
the head surgeon of the marine, who, in his
turn, recommended me to the notice of
Monsieur Lanoes, the inspector of convicts.
Monsieur Lanoes soon saw how little I
associated with the other prisoners; and, being
pleased with my conduct, has employed me
as his secretary. I am now free to move
about all day, being chained only at night.

Tenth of May, eighteen hundred and forty-
nine. My father has been to see me. He
came a week ago. What an interview! All
my wounds seemed to reopen. The
sight of my father brought up before me,
the whole of my trial, and the calumnies of
which I have been the victim. No doubt my
father brought me hope; but hope was
scarcely any compensation for my misfortune.
My father was pleased to hear such good
accounts of me from my chiefs; he found me
the same man; my manners were not changed.
Indeed, the bagne is not my element, and
although I see crime very near, I turn my
head away from it. My father brought me a
little silver cross, with a piece of green ribbon
attached to it. She had not trusted herself to
write to me, but had taken that little cross—
which I knew so well—from her neck, and
tied the green ribbon to it as a mute symbol
of hope. I did not need any token to assure
myself she still believed in my innocence.

When my father and I separated, we did
not weep. But next day, I was taken ill
with a delirious fever, and sent to the
hospital. My companions in misfortune have
since told me that, in my delirium, the
names of my father, my mother, my affianced,
and my sister, were continually upon my lips.

Twenty-ninth of April, eighteen hundred
and fifty-one. Today I have seen my father
for probably the last time. In two days,
I shall be sent to Brest with three hundred
and fifty-two other convicts. I have now very
little hope that my innocence will ever
become known; or that I shall ever again see
those I love. No one can imagine what
I suffered at parting with the only friend
I have seen during the last four years.

Fourth of July, eighteen hundred and
fifty-one. On arriving here upon the seventh
of May last, I found quite a different state of
things from what I had left. I was again
put in irons. In a few days we were fastened
to each other, two and two, by a link
uniting the chains attached to our legs, and
sent to work in the fortifications. My
sufferings during the first eleven months,
after my arrival at Rochefort, recommenced,
and would have probably continued, if
Monsieur, the Inspector of Convicts, who had
been so kind to me, had not recommended me
to his colleague at Brest. And, in less
than two months, I was employed as a clerk
in the interior of the bagne.

September, eighteen hundred and fifty-
three. My father often writes to me, giving
me great hopes; and for the last three years
I have daily expected that the discovery of
the guilty would put an end to my
misfortunes. But that blessed day has not yet
come; and although I am almost inured to
sufferings of every description, hope alone
sustains me.

July, eighteen hundred and fifty-four. In
his letter to me to-day, my father tells me,
that the public prosecutor at La Reolle has
positively refused to make any investigation
of my case. All our hopes are therefore
blasted! I know that my poor father has
nearly exhausted all his resources, as well as
ruined his health, in his endeavours to
discover the guilty parties. But it is all
useless! His troubles must be greater even
than mine,—and I think it would be better
for us both if I were sent to Cayenne. I
cannot any longer bear this sort of life. Some
change I must have.

First of September. To-day I have
addressed to Monsieur, the Minister of Marine,
a petition requesting to be sent away from
France with the first gang of convicts starting
for Cayenne. My intention in leaving is
to relieve my father. He must have rest;
and, as long as I am here, he will not
take it. His life is dearer to me than my