Wednesday ; and, to my great astonishment, I learned that
you were still in Paris, and it was not known if you would
start on Thursday even. I went myself to learn if you were
ill ; and (what may strike you as shocking) it seemed to me
that I desired it. Nevertheless, with an inconsistency which
I will not explain I felt comforted on learning that you were
gone. Yes, your departure has restored my calmness ; but
I feel more sad. You must pardon this, and be satisfied. I
do not know if I regret you, but I miss you as my pleasure ;
I believe that active and sensitive souls cling too strongly to
pleasure. It is not the idea of the length of your absence
that distresses me — my thought does not go so far ; it is
simply the present that weighs upon my soul, depresses,
saddens it, and scarcely leaves it energy to desire better
sentiments.
But see, what horrible selfishnes ! here are three pages full of myself , and yet I believe it is of you that I am thinking ; at least I feel I must know how you are, whether you are well. When you read this, how far away you will be ! Your person may be only three hundred leagues distant, but see what strides your thought has already made ! what new objects ! what ideas ! what novel reflections ! It seems to me that I am speaking now to the mere shadow of you ; all that I know of you has disappeared ; scarcely will you find in your memory any traces of the affections which agitated and excited you during the last days you spent in Paris ; and it is best so. You know how we agreed that too great sensibility was a mark of mediocrity, and your character commands you to be great ; your talents condemn you to celebrity. Yield yourself, therefore, to your destiny, and tell yourself, firmly, that you are not made for the soft, inward life that tenderness and sentiment require. There is only pleasure and no glory in living for a single object. When we reign in one heart
