intoxicating me, and that remedy has been the greatest of my misfortunes.
Good-night, mon ami; send me news of yourself; my footman has orders to return for your answer. Tell me what you expect to do to-morrow; tell me if I shall see you: I would rather it were not in the morning, because I must then receive a long and wearisome visit; but I want to see you nevertheless. Remember that on Saturday and Sunday I shall be deprived of that happiness.
Adieu again; I am much fatigued. I have seen, I think, forty persons to-day, and I desired to see but one—one whose thoughts very certainly have not been turned even once to me. Mon ami, if you were happy I would approve of your manner of living; but this vagueness, this void, this agitation, this perpetual movement, this habit of being neither occupied by work nor inspired by feeling, this continued expenditure which impoverishes, with no return in pleasure, or reputation, or interest, or fame!—ah! mon ami, you do not deserve that Nature should have treated you so well; she has been prodigal towards you, and you are but a spendthrift. But I, I ruin myself for you, and it oppresses without enriching you. Yes, I weary you; you feel a disgust for my letters, and in that I admire the correctness and delicacy of your taste; but while I esteem such good taste I grieve that you have almost no indulgence or kindliness.
Four hours after midday, 1774.
Certainly, mon ami, I do not keep to the lex talionis at this moment, for it is not with me that you are occupied. Eh! mon Dieu! how could you think of me in the midst of so many and such charming objects of distraction, when I cannot keep your thoughts fixed when we are tête à tête? Do you know why I prefer to see you in the evening? Be-
