me, but I hope that his hemorrhage may not have fatal
results ; I even hope it may hasten his return ; but this hot
weather is a mortal injury to him, and I must wait.
Ah ! mon Dieu ! always to see pleasure deferred, disap- pearing ! always to be engulfed, overwhelmed by sorrow ! If you knew what need I have of repose ! for one year I have been upon the rack. You alone, perhaps, have had the power to suspend my sorrow for a few instants; and that blessing of a moment has bound me to you forever.
But tell me, — my last letter, did it displease you ? Do I not stand ill with you ? I should be grieved were it so ; but I am not like Mme. du Chatelet ; I know no repentance. Answer me with the same frankness that I employ to you ; esteem me enough not to tell me half the truth ; tell me all the evil you think of me ; and it is not, as M. de la Eoche- foucauld says, for the pleasure of hearing myself spoken of that I ask you to tell me this ; it is to judge if you are my friend, if — in a word — you can he my friend. I attach enough value to our intercourse to wish urgently to know what there may have been of sudden surprise, or mistake, in that which drew us to each other. It is said that nothing is stronger or better founded than the sentiments for which we can give no reason. If that is true, I ought to rely upon your friend- ship ; but you will not have it so ; why is that ? Shall I not be satisfied with it ? Do you not know that the natural impulse after we have acquired a new possession is to examine it, to observe it on all sides ; this occupation is perhaps the highest joy that possession gives ; but you, you do not know all the details and all the pleasures of sensi- bility. "Whatever is elevated, whatever is noble, whatever is grand, that is your sphere. The heroes of Corneille fix your attention ; scarcely do you cast your eyes on the little swains of Gessner. You love to admire, and I, I have but one need,
