my beard, washed it repeatedly with cold water, and breakfasted. If it was the day on which I expected books from my friend Mostowski, with what impatience I clung to my window to see the corporal passing who should bring me my parcel. I was obliged, however, to wait two or three hours until the subaltern officer had examined all the leaves, one after another. But I was quite easy on that score, the small point of the pin being as imperceptible as the letters written in sympathetic ink.
They brought me once the complete works of Bernardin de Saint Pierre, with the exception of the first volume. I insisted that they should give me it, but they tried to evade my request. Two, three hours passed; no book. At length the officer brought it; “Tell me,” said I frankly, taking it, “why have you detained this volume?” “There was something written in it,” replied he, “and I have orders not to give you such a book. Being unable to make out the writing, I sent it to Alexander-Siemianowicz, the Inspector of the prison, who also finding the
