_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Madame de Rosemonde.
My dear friend, my uneasiness for the state of your health is so great,
I cannot forbear writing to you. Without knowing whether you will be
able to answer me, I cannot avoid interrogating you. M. de Valmont’s
state, which you tell me _is not dangerous_, does not, however,
dispel my apprehensions so much as it does yours. It is no novelty
that melancholy and distaste for company should be symptoms of an
approaching disease; bodily disorders, as well as those of the mind,
incline us to solitude; and we often load those with ill temper, whose
disorder we ought to compassionate.
I think he ought, at least, consult with some one. How happens it,
that being yourself indisposed, you have not a physician? Mine, who I
sent for this morning, and whom, for I will not conceal it from you,
I consulted indirectly, is of opinion, that with persons of naturally
an active disposition, this kind of sudden apathy should by no means
be neglected. He told me, moreover, disorders will not give way to
remedies, when they have been neglected in the beginning. Why then run
such a hazard with one so dear to you?
It adds greatly to my uneasiness, I have not had any news of him these
four days. Good God! I beg you will not deceive me on his state! Why
is it he has left off writing to me so suddenly? If it was only the
effect of my obstinacy in returning his letters, I believe he would
have taken the resolution sooner. Without having, however, any faith
in forebodings, for these few days I have been in a most melancholy
situation. I fear I am on the eve of some great misfortune. You cannot
imagine, and I am ashamed to tell you, how much I regret not receiving
those letters which I refused to read. I was certain he at least
thought of me, and saw something that came from his hands. I did not
open them, but I wept over them: my tears were softer, and flowed
with more ease; they only partly dissipated the habitual oppression I
experience since my return. I conjure you, my most respectable friend,
to write to me yourself as soon as you can; in the mean time, pray
indulge me every day in hearing from you, and of him.
I now perceive, I have scarcely said a word to you: but you know my
sentiments, my unreserved attachment, my tender gratitude, for your
sincere friendship. You will forgive my distress, my painful anguish,
for dreading evils of which I am, perhaps, the cause. Merciful God!
this desponding idea pursues me and wrings my heart. This misfortune
only was wanting. I know I am born to experience them all.
Adieu, my dear friend! love me, pity me. Shall I hear from you this day?
_Paris, Oct._ 16, 17—.