Manon Lescaut is a truly touching story every detail of which is familiar to me and yet，whenever I hold a copy in my hand，an instinctive feeling for it draws me on.I open it and for the hundredth time I live again with the abbe Prevost's heroine.Now，his heroine is so lifelike that I feel that I have met her.In my new circumstances，the kind of comparison drawn between her and Marguerite added an unexpected edge to my reading，and my forbearance was swelled with pity，almost love，for the poor girl，the disposal of whose estate I could thank for possessing the volume.Manon died in a desert，it is true，but in the terms of the man who loved her with all the strength of his soul and who，when she was dead，dug a grave for her，watered it with his tears and buried his heart with her；whereas Marguerite，a sinner like Manon，and perhaps as truly converted as she，had died surrounded by fabulous luxury，if I could believe what I had seen，on the bed of her own past，but no less lost in the desert of the heart which is much more arid，much vaster and far more pitiless than the one in which Manon had been interred.
Indeed Marguerite，as I had learned from friends informed of the circumstances of her final moments，had seen no true consolation settle at her bedside during the two months when she lay slowly and painfully dying.
Then，from Manon and Marguerite，my thoughts turned to those women whom I knew and whom I could see rushing gaily towards the same almost invariable death.
Poor creatures！If it is wrong to love them，the least one can do is to pity them.You pity the blind man who has never seen the light of day，the deaf man who has never heard the harmonies of nature，the mute who has never found a voice for his soul，and yet，under the specious pretext of decency，you will not pity that blindness of heart，deafness of soul and dumbness of conscience which turn the brains of poor，desperate women and prevent them，despite themselves，from seeing goodness，hearing the Lord and speaking the pure language of love and religion.
Hugo wrote Marion Delorme，Musset wrote Bernerette，Alexandre Dumas wrote Fernande.Thinkers and poets throughout the ages have offered the courtesan the oblation of their mercy and，on occasion，some great man has brought them back to the fold through the gift of his love and even his name.If I dwell on this point，it is because among those who will read these pages，many may already be about to throw down a book in which they fear they will see nothing but an apology for vice and prostitution，and doubtless the youth of the present author is a contributing factor in providing grounds for their fears.Let those who are of such a mind be undeceived.Let them read on，if such fears alone gave them pause.
I am quite simply persuaded of a principle which states that：To any woman whose education has not imparted knowledge of goodness，God almost invariably opens up two paths which will lead her back to it；these paths are suffering and love.They are rocky paths；women who follow them will cut their feet and graze their hands，but will at the same time leave the gaudy rags of vice hanging on the briars which line the road，and shall reach their journey's end in that naked state for which no one need feel shame in the sight of the Lord.
Any who encounter these brave wayfarers are duty bound to comfort them and to say to all the world that they have encountered them，for by proclaiming the news they show the way.
It is not a simple matter of erecting two signposts at the gateway to life，one bearing the inion：'The Way of Goodness'and the other carrying this warning：'The way of evil'，and of saying to those who come：'Choose！'Each of us，like Christ himself，must point to those paths which will redirect from the second way to the first the steps of those who have allowed themselves to be tempted by the approach roads；and above all let not the beginning of these paths be too painful，nor appear too difficult of access.
Christianity is ever-present，with its wonderful parable of the prodigal son，to urge us to counsels of forbearance and forgiveness.Jesus was full of love for souls of women wounded by the passions of men，and He loved to bind their wounds，drawing from those same wounds the balm which would heal them.Thus he said to Mary Magdalene：'Your sins，which are many，shall be forgiven，because you loved much'-a sublime pardon which was to awaken a sublime faith.
Why should we judge more strictly than Christ？Why，clinging stubbornly to the opinions of the world which waxes hard so that we shall think it strong，why should we too turn away souls that bleed from wounds oozing with the evil of their past，like infected blood from a sick body，as they wait only for a friendly hand to bind them up and restore them to a convalescent heart？
It is to my generation that I speak，to those for whom the theories of Monsieur de Voltaire are，happily，defunct，to those who，like myself，can see that humanity has，these fifteen years past，been engaged in one of its boldest leaps forward.The knowledge of good and evil is ours forever；religion is rebuilding，the respect for holy things has been restored to us，and，if the world is not yet wholly good，then at least it is becoming better.The efforts of all intelligent men tend to the same goal，and all those firm in purpose are yoked to the same principle：let us be good，let us be young，let us be true！Evil is but vanity：let us take pride in Goodness and，above all，let us not despair.Let us not scorn the woman who is neither mother nor sister nor daughter nor wife.Let us not limit respect to the family alone nor reduce forbearance to mere egoism.Since there is more rejoicing in heaven for the repentance of one sinner than for a hundred just men who have never sinned，let us try to give heaven cause to rejoice.Heaven may repay us with interest.Let us leave along our way the charity of our forgiveness for those whom earthly desires have brought low，who shall perhaps be saved by hope in heaven and，as wise old dames say when they prescribe remedies of their own making，if it dies no good then at least it can do no harm.
In truth，it must seem very forward of me to seek to derive such great results from the slender subject which I treat；but I am of those who believe that the whole is in the part.The child is small，and yet he is father to the man；the brain is cramped，and yet it is the seat of thought；the eye is but a point，yet it encompasses leagues of space.