all that makes me feel, think, breathe, in a word, all that
is I, is shocked, wounded, and offended forever. You have
restored to me enough strength, not to endure my sorrow (it
seems to me greater and more crushing than ever), but to se-
cure myself from ever again being tortured and made unhappy
by you. Judge of the excess of my crime and the greatness of
my loss. I feel, sorrow does not deceive me, that if M. de
Mora were living and could have read your letter he would
forgive me, he would console me, and hate you.
Ah! mon Dieu! leave me my regrets ; they are a thousand times more dear to me than what you call your sentiment ; that is dreadful to me ; its expression is contemptuous, and my soul repels it with such horror that that alone assures me my soul is worthy of virtue. Were you even to think that you have done justly by me, I prefer to leave you in that opinion rather than enter upon any explanation. The matter is ended ; be with me as you can, as you please ; for myself, in future (if there is a future for me) I shall be with you as I ought always to have been, and, if you leave no remorse within my soul, I hope to forget you. I feel that the wounds of self-love chill the soul. I do not know why I have let you read what I wrote you before I received your letter ; you will see there all my weakness ; but you will not see all my misfortune: I hoped nothing more from you; I did not seek to be consoled. Then why should I complain ? Ah, why ! because the patient doomed to death continues to expect his doctor ; because he lifts his eyes to his, still seeking hope; because the last impulse of pain is a moan, the last accent of the soul is a cry : that is the explanation of my inconsistency, my folly, my weakness.
Oh! I am punished!
