gentleness, your truth have filled my heart with tenderness and sensibility.
I have a line from you and only a line; but it tells me that you are without fever, and thus it has tranquillized me. But you are anxious about your sister; and so am I, for I am so near to all that touches you. I, too, have fever : the paroxysm of suffering last night has affected my blood and my pulse; but do not be uneasy, death never comes so opportunely; the unhappy do not die, and they are too feeble, too cowardly, when they love, to kill themselves. I shall live, I shall suffer, I shall await — not happiness, not pleasure — what ? Mon ami, it is to you I speak ; answer me. . . .
Do you not thiak that your heedlessness is rather dangerous ? You write to me and do not seal your letter; I send you its envelope that you may not doubt me. The Pope[1] is dead of an illness that arouses very frightful suspicions. Good-night, mon ami. My head is heavy and I feel more ill than usual, but I have had my letter from you : that is the one important thing. I am in a very singular condition; for the last twelve hours my eyes represent to me but one and always the same object, whether I keep them open or shut; that object, which is he whose memory I cherish and adore, fills me with dread. At this very moment he is there; what I touch, what I write is not more present, more visible; but why should I fear ? why this trouble ? Ah ! if it only were so ! . . .
Mon ami, I have no letter from you; I expected one. Alas ! I experience that the soul which hopes least can be
- ↑ Clement XIV., Lorenzo Ganganelli ; author of the Bull which suppressed the Order of the Jesuits. He was thought to have been poisoned. — Fe. Ed.
