it comforts, it would have written by every courier, because it would have felt the needs of a suffering soul. No, these are not reproaches, they would be useless or distressing. Ah ! how grieved I should be to give you an instant's pain.
Mon ami, I need to know if your fever has not returned, and if that of your sister is subdued. In writing to you the last time I was delirious, I think; I had a burning fever all night; it has left me now, and in leaving me it has effaced that image that hid all other objects from my sight; but I do not know why it brought such terror into my soul. Ah! if I could buy back his life for a single hour there is no pain I should not have the strength to bear ; I should say with Zulime: —
"Death and hell appear before me :
Ramire ! with transport I descend there for thee."
But, mon ami, I did not mean to say to you all this. I am confused; I cannot continue. Adieu.
First of all, I must tell you that your ink is white as paper, and to-day it has really put me out of patience. I had ordered your letter to be brought to me at M. Turgot's, where I was dining with twenty persons. It was given to me while at table; on one side I had the Archbishop of Aix, on the other, that inquisitive Abbé Morellet. I opened my letter under the table ; I could scarcely see that any black was on the white, and the abbé made the same remark. Mme. de BoufSers, who was on the other side of the Archbishop of Aix, asked what I was reading. " Remember where we are, and you will know what it is." — "A memorial, no doubt, for M. Turgot ? " — " Yes, just so, madame, and I wish to read it over before I give it to him."
