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As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black

melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was

for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the

agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends

dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so

miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might fulfil

my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh, very soon,

will death extinguish these throbbings and relieve me from the

mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in

executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then

the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever

present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and

speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me

and my destroyer in its ruins.