the desire of the soul and a will which comes only from re-
flection ? Conclusion : I love you to frenzy, and something
tells me it is not thus that you ought to be loved. That some-
thing makes such noise around my soul that I am ready to
hush all else, and give myself up completely to that dreadful
truth.
Mon ami, I send you back your works that you may be yourself their censor : put the last touches to them, and be assured that no one in the world attaches as much value as I to all that you do, and all that you are capable of doing. Without being vain, it seems to me one could put one's vanity, pride, virtue, pleasure, in short, one's whole existence, into loving you ; but that is not what I was saying just now. No, but then I was saying what I thought, what I knew, and now I am carried away into telling you what I feel. My soul is so strong to love, and my mind is so small, so weak, so limited, that I ought to forbid myself all expressions and actions that do not come from my heart. It is my heart that speaks when I say to you : " I await you, I love you, I would fain, be wholly yours, and die."
Adieu ; here come visitors. I am so occupied with you, I am so deeply filled with my regrets, that society is nothing more to me than importunity and constraint. There are but two ways of living that now seem good to me, — to see you, or to be alone ; but alone, without books, without lights, without noise. I am far from complaining of my sleepless- ness, it is the good time of my twenty-four hours. Observe, I beg of you, how much it costs me to quit you ; whereas you have no impulse towards me — not a thought ! Are you the happier for that ? Yes.
How kind of you to send me an account of what you do, of what you are thinking, of what occupies you ! How I love
