Exactly a month has elapsed since I finished the first series of my writings—just that period of the flow of time which I intended to devote exclusively to resting the parts of my common presence subordinate to my pure reason.

As I wrote in the last chapter of the first series, I had given myself my word that during the whole of this time, I would do no writing whatsoever, but would only—for the well-being of the most deserving of these subordinate parts, slowly and gently—drink down all the bottles of old Calvados now at my disposal by the will of fate in the wine-cellar of the Prieuré, and specially provided the century before last by people who understood the true sense of life.