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My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and

strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he

thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to

answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the

futility of pride.

"Alas! My father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human

beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if

such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was

as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for

it; and I am the cause of this-I murdered her. William, Justine,

and Henry-they all died by my hands."