urn that letter! I weigh it, first in
my right hand, then in my left. Sometimes its weight makes me happy;
sometimes it fills me with foreboding. Do the words weigh so heavy, or
only the paper?

Last night I held it close to the candle. But when the flame touched my
letter, I drew it quickly away.--It is all I have left to me now....

* * * * *

Richard writes to me that Malthe has been commissioned to build a great
hospital. Most of our great architects competed for the work. He goes on
to ask whether I am not proud of "my young friend."

My young friend!...

* * * * *

Jeanne spoke to me about herself to-day. I think she was quite
bewildered by the extraordinary fall of leaves which has almost blinded
us the last three days. She was doing my hair, and tracing a line
straight across my forehead, she remarked:

"Here should be a ribbon with red jewels."

I told her that I had once had the same idea, but I had given it up out
of consideration for my fellow creatures.

"But there are none here," she exclaimed,

I replied laughing:

"Then it is not worth while decking myself out!"

Jeanne took out the pins and let my hair down.

"If I were rich," she said, "I would dress for myself alone. Men neither
notice nor understand anything about it."

We went on talking like two equals, and a few minutes later, remembering
what I had observed, I gave her some silk stockings. Instead of thanking
me, she remarked so suddenly that she took my breath away:

"Once I sold myself for a pair of green silk stockings."

I could not help asking the question:

"Did you regret your bargain?"

She looked me straight in the face:

"I don't know. I only thought about my stockings."

Naturally such conversations are rather risky; I shall avoid them in
future. But the riddle is more puzzling than ever. What brought Jeanne
to share my solitude on this island?

* * * * *

Now we have a man about the place. Torp got him. He digs in the garden
and chops wood. But the odour impregnates Torp and even reaches me.

He makes eyes at Jeanne, who looks at me and smiles. Torp makes a fuss
of him, and every night I smell his pipe in the basement.

* * * * *

I have shut myself upstairs and played patience. The questions I put to
the cards come from that casket of memories the seven keys of which I
believed I