disappointed. Forgive me: the need that I have of you makes me expect too much; I must be corrected of that error. I am ill, and in a state of inexpressible suffering; all kinds of nourishment do me equal harm. My physician concludes that some obstruction is forming in the pylorus; that strange word was unknown to me ; but it is torture when that door shuts. I am taking hemlock; if it could be prepared like that of Socrates I should take it with pleasure. It would cure me of the slow and painful malady called life.
You do me harm, mon ami; you render death a necessity to me, and you hold me to life. What weakness! what inconsistency! Yes, I judge myself rightly ; but I languish, I delay. I feel that there will come a day, a moment when I shall bitterly repent having delayed so long. If I cast my eyes upon the past I see that I should have been too fortunate if the end of my life had come on Wednesday, June 1 [the day she heard of M. de Mora's death]. Mon Dieu! what sorrow, what evils I should then have escaped. Yes, I shudder in thinking that I can blame no one but you for all that I have suffered since that fatal day. How ill-inspired you were ! my death would have been no injury to you. At this moment when I write to you, you would not remember it ; whereas, in place of that forgetfulness which would have left you to enjoy your repose and pleasure, I burden you with my woes, I make the whole weight of my life weigh upon your heart. Ah ! I know well that susceptible, strong, and virtuous heart; it would be capable of making some great sacrifice to relieve the unhappy soul, but it is out of your power to take care of it, soothe it, calm it. Whatever is consecutive is to you impossible; your heart is impassioned, but it does not know tenderness. Passion only works spasmodically; it has actions, emotions ; but tenderness gives care, it helps.
