perhaps, to have one friend the more — for you tell me so.
If I had been calm, reasonable, cold, all this would not have
happened. I should vegetate with the other women, who
flirt their fans and discuss the sentence on M. de Morangies
and the arrival of the Comtesse de Provence.
Yes, I repeat it : I prefer my griefs to all that people in society call happiness and pleasure. I may die of them per- haps, but that is better than never having lived. Do you understand me ? are you on my key ? have you forgotten that you too have been as ill, but more fortunate than I ? Adieu ; I do not know how it is, I meant to write you four lines only, but my pleasure in doing so has led me on. How many persons are there whom you will see on your return with greater pleasure than you will me ? I will give you the list : Madame de . . . , the Chevalier d'Aguesseau, the Comte de Broglie, the Prince de Beauvau, the Comte de Eocham- beau, etc., etc., and Mesdames de Beauvau, de Boufflers, de Rochambeau, de Martinville, etc., etc. ; then the Chevalier de Chastellux, and then I, at last, the last. Ah ! see the differ- ence : I can name but one against your ten ; the heart does not conduct itself by law and justice ; it is despotic and absolute. I forgive you ; but — return.
M. d'Alembert awaits you with impatience. The Cheva- lier de Chastellux is absorbed by the comedies at Mme. d'Epinay's, but his tone is cold and sad. Adieu ; do you really think that I shall see you in a month ? That is too far off to feel any pleasure from it yet.
November, 1773.
Here I am : courage failed me ! When I have not what I love I prefer to be alone : I talk then to my friends more intimately, — more unreservedly. I have just written for three hours, and I am blinded by it, but not wearied. Mme. de Boufflers permits me to ask you for a copy of her letter;
