I will not write to you again. You have done me one wrong,
but if you do me a thousand more, I here declare to you
that I will not forgive you, and that I shall not love you less.
You see that I am talking to you of the impossible: the
logic of the heart is absurd. In God's name, act so that I
shall never reason more wisely.
How much you are missed at this moment! the excite- ment is general, won ami. There is this difference between my state of mind and that of all the persons I see : they are transported with joy at the happiness they foretell, while I only breathe the freer for our deliverance from evil. Mon Dieu ! my soul cannot rise to joy ; it is filled with regrets and heart-breaking memories ; it is stirred by a sentiment that troubles it ; that often gives it violent emotions, but very rarely any pleasure. In such a state, public joy is only felt by thought and reflection; reasonable pleasures are so moderate ! my friends are displeased that they cannot drag me into enthusiasm. " I am very sorry," I say to them, " but I have no longer the strength to be glad." Nevertheless, I am very pleased that M. Turgot has already dismissed a scoundrel, the man of the wheat affair [treasurer of the king's granaries]. I must tell you of a compliment the fish- women paid to the king [Louis XVI.] on his fete-day : " Sire, we have come to compliment Your Majesty on the hunt you had yesterday ; never did your grandfather have a better." The Comte de C . . . , who is at Martigny with M. de Trudaine, has written me three pages full of enthusiasm and transport. How happy they are ! hope keeps them young. Alas ! how old one feels when one has lost it, when nothing remains but to escape despair !
Tell me if you are writing many verses ; if you are getting a habit of making haste slowly, if you have resolved to do like Racine, who wrote poetry reluctantly. Mon ami, I impose
