doing ; perhaps the alarm I have felt is that which would
most offend the one I love. I have just received, this instant,
a letter so full of confidence in my feelings ; he speaks to me
of myself, of what I think, of my soul, with that degree of
knowledge and certainty which is uttered only when we
feel strongly and keenly. Ah, mon Dieu ! by what charm,
by what fatality have you come to distract me ? Why did I
not die in the month of September ? I could have died then
without regret, without the reproaches that I now make to
myself. Alas ! I feel it, I could still die for him ; there is
no interest of mine I would not sacrifice to him — but for
two months past I have had none to make ; I do not love
more, but I love better. Oh ! he will pardon me ! I had
suffered so much ! my body, my soul were so exhausted by
the long continuance of the sorrow. The news I received of
him threw me sometimes into frenzy. It was then that I
first saw you ; then that you revived my soul, then that you
brought pleasure into it ; I know not which was sweetest, to
feel it, or to owe it to you.
But tell me, is this the tone of friendship, the tone of confidence ? What is it that is drawing me ? Make me know myself ; aid me to recover myself in a measure ; my soul is convulsed ; is it you, is it your departure, what is it that persecutes me? I can no more. At this moment I have confidence in you, even to abandonment, but perhaps I shall never speak to you again of my life. Adieu, I shall see you to-morrow ; possibly I shall feel embarrassed by what I have now written to you. Would to heaven that you were my friend, or that I had never known you ! Do you believe me ? Will you be my friend ? Think of it, once only ; is that too
much?
