heartily believe,
but it is impossible to fight for those that have become to us
the least in the world ridiculous. Perhaps Valeria's death had
unconsciously disheartened me for an enterprise which had been,
however remotely, its occasion. Perhaps many of her words, whose force
I had successfully resisted during her lifetime, now re echoed from
her grave with more profound significance. But it is certain that, for
the first time, I wavered in affection for my life-long ideal. Alarmed
at myself, and determined, if possible, to reinvigorate my failing
faith, I went back to Rome, trusting that the Holy City would inspire
me afresh. Appointed to a civil office of considerable importance, I
was soon introduced into the midst of the Papal Court, and behind the
scenes of the magnificent theatrical display that had so long dazzled
my imagination. I was initiated into the shameful mysteries of cabal
and intrigue, and taught the precious secrets of Pope and Cardinals.
On every side I saw falsehood, treachery, and duplicity welcomed as
the ablest servitors of truth, the grandest professions assumed as an
excuse for the most vulgar villainy, ambition glozed over by degrading
humility, and sensuality all the more disgusting from the saintly
robes in which it was paraded and but half concealed. My faith,
already enfeebled, died of rapid decline, stifled by these monstrous
fooleries. Disenchanted, revolted, disgusted, I resigned my position,
and abandoned the Pope and his cause forever.

I did not, therefore, enlist under Garibaldi. A tenacious loyalty to
the memory of ideas I had once served would always prevent me from
more actively attacking them, or from desecrating their graves.
Moreover, the revulsion of feeling consequent upon my disillusion was
so tremendous, that I was swept entirely out of the region of the
questions at issue, and both sides became indifferent to me, both
camps dim and shadowy in the distance.

I returned, therefore, to France, and settled down in a remote corner
of the provinces, to exercise my profession as a country physician.
After the accumulated anguish of the last few months, the quiet
dulness of the place was infinitely grateful to me. I was like a
bruised swimmer, tossed upon a monotonous sandbank, who only asks to
be left there in peace, until long repose has rested the aching limbs,
and blunted the harrowing recollections of the shipwreck. The
incessant excitement of Paris was intolerable to me,