doubt ; and it is one harm the more to dwell upon it.
I have not an impulse, I never say a word to you, that
does not cause me regret or repentance. Mon ami, I ought
to hate you. Alas ! it is long since I have done what I ought,
what I wish ! I hate myself, I condemn myself, and I love
you.
Sunday evening, October 9, 1774.
Mon ami, I have read your letter twice ; and the total impression that I receive from it is that you are very amiable, and that it is much easier not to love you at all than to love you moderately. Make the commentary on that, but not with your mind ; it is not to your mind that I speak. Mon ami, if I chose, I could dwell on certain words in your letter which have done me harm. You speak of my courage, my resources, the employment of my time, and of that of my soul in a manner to make me die of shame and regret for having suffered you to see my weakness. Ah, well ! it was in my soul, of which no impulse can be hidden from you. When it was moved by hatred, I let you see it ; but was hatred all that I allowed myself to feel ?
Mon ami, on reading again the recapitulation that you make of all there is on earth to keep me from destruction, I ended by laughing over it because it reminded me of a saying of President Henault, which is good. At a certain period of his life he thought that, in order to add to the esteem in which he was held, it would be well to become devout ; he made a general confession, and afterwards wrote to his friend M. d'Argenson, " Never do we feel so rich as when we move our belongings c[ue lorsqu'on demenage]."
I shall dine to-morrow with the Duchesse d'Anville. I like that house ; it is one the more where I can see you ; you live for what you love and for the gay world every evening; but will you not often dine where I do? That
