Your scholar does you honour, my brave Pierre, and I won great praise and applause for my really too easy victory.

In spite of the constant novelty and excitement of my new way of life, my thoughts often return to dwell upon my poor old chateau, crumbling gradually into ruin over the tombs of my ancestors.

From afar it does not seem so desolate and forlorn, and there are times when I fancy myself there once more, gazing up at the venerable family portraits, wandering through the deserted rooms, and I find a sort of melancholy pleasure in it.

How I wish that I could look into your honest, sunburnt face, lighted up with the glad smile that always greeted me--and I am not ashamed to confess that I long to hear Beelzebub's contented purring, Miraut's joyful bark, and the loud whinnying of my poor old Bayard, who never failed to recognise my step.

Are they all still alive--the good, faithful, affectionate creatures--and do they seem to remember me?
Have you been able to keep yourself and them from starvation thus far?
Try to hold out until my return, my good Pierre, so as to share my fate--be it bright or dark, happy or sad--that we may finish our days together in the place where we have suffered so much, yet which is so dear to us all.