Madame de Rosemonde _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.
I was more afflicted, my lovely dear, at your departure, than surprised
at the cause; long experience, and my concern for you, had sufficiently
informed me the state of your heart; and to sum up all, you have told
me almost nothing in your letter but what I feared. Was I to depend on
it for information, I should still be ignorant who it is you love; for
in speaking of _him_ all the time, you never once mention his name.
It was not necessary; too well I know who it is. This I remark only,
because I recollect, it always has been the language of love. I see
things are the same as they were formerly.
I little imagined my thoughts would ever be called back to things so
foreign to my age, and so much out of my memory. Since yesterday,
however, my mind has been much taken up with it, in order to find out
something that may be useful to you. What can I then do, but admire and
pity you? I am charmed with your proceeding; yet terrified because you
thought it indispensable; and when things have gone so far, it is a
difficult matter to avoid those our hearts are continually drawing us
towards.
However, you must not be discouraged; nothing is impossible to such
a virtuous mind; and were you ever to yield, (which God forbid!) you
will at least, my lovely dear, have the consolation of having resisted
with all your might; moreover, what human wisdom cannot accomplish,
the divine grace operates when it pleases. You are, perhaps, now at
the eve of your deliverance; and your virtue, which has been tried
in those dreadful conflicts, will arise more pure and refined. The
strength which forsakes you to-day, you must hope for to-morrow. Do
not, however, depend on it; use it only as an incentive to encourage
you to employ all your own.
Leaving to Providence the care of assisting you in a danger where
I can bring no prevention, I reserve to myself that of supporting
and consoling you as much as in my power. I cannot relieve your
troubles, but I will share them. On those conditions I will accept
your confidence. I know your heart wants to be disburthened; I offer
you my own; age has not so far frozen it, as to leave it insensible to
friendship: you will always find it open to receive you. This is a poor
relief to your distress, but you shall not, however, weep alone; and
when this unhappy passion overpowers you, and obliges you to speak, it
will be better it should be with me than _him._ Now I speak as you do;
and I believe between us both we shall not be able to name him, but we
understand each other.
I do not know whether I do right in telling you he appeared amazingly
affected as your sudden departure; it would, perhaps, be better not
to mention it: but I am not fond of that prudence that afflicts one’s
friends. I am obliged to stop short on that subject; for the weakness
of my sight and a trembling hand will not indulge long letters, when I
am under the necessity of writing them myself.
Adieu, my lovely dear! Adieu, my amiable child! I adopt you freely as a
daughter. You have every accomplishment to fill a mother’s heart with
pride and pleasure.
_Oct._ 3, 17—.