and of your follies ; I regretted you ; I longed for you with
as much passion as if you were the most amiable, most
reasonable being that existed. I cannot explain to myself
the charm that binds me to you. You are not my friend ;
you can never become so : I have no sort of confidence in
you ; you have caused me the deepest, sharpest pain that can
afflict and rend an honest soul ; you deprive me at this mo-
ment, and perhaps forever, of the only consolation that
heaven granted to the few remaining days I have to live, —
how shall I say it ? You have filled all ; the past, the pre-
sent, and the future present me nothing but pain, regrets,
remorse. Ah ! mon ami, I see, I judge it all, yet I am drawn
to you by an attraction, by a feeling which I abhor, but which
has the power of a curse and a fatality. You do well not to
consider me ; I have no right to require anything of you ; for
my most ardent wish is that you were nothing to me. What
would you say of the state of a most unhappy being who
showed herself to you for the first time agitated, convulsed
by feelings so diverse and contradictory ? You would pity
her; your heart would be stirred; you would want to suc-
cour, to comfort that unfortunate creature. Mon ami, it is
I ; this sorrow, it is you who have caused it ; this soul of
fire and pain is your creation (ah ! I still think you godlike),
and you ought to repent of your work.
When I took my pen I did not know one word of what I should say to you ; I meant only to tell you to come and dine to-morrow, Wednesday, at Mme. Geoffrin's. I meant to show you that you alone of all my friends oblige me to wait for what I earnestly desire, " Le Conn^table." It is mine; I might have refused to give it to you, and now it is I who persecute you to return it. Ah ! mon Dieu ! neither cares, nor interest, nor attentions, nor any desire to please, — occasionally a kindness that resembles pity ; and with it all, or with-
