_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Madame de Rosemonde.
The veil is rent, Madam, on which was painted my illusory
happiness—The fatal truth is cleared, that leaves me no prospect but
an assured and speedy death; and my road is traced between shame and
remorse. I will follow it—I will cherish my torments if they will
shorten my existence—I send you the letter I received yesterday; it
needs no reflections; it contains them all—This is not a time for
lamentation—nothing remains but sufferings—I want not pity, I want
strength.
Receive, Madame, the only adieu I shall make, and grant my last
request: leave me to my fate—forget me totally—do not reckon me
among the living. There is a limit in misery, when even friendship
augments our sufferings and cannot cure them—When wounds are mortal,
all relief is cruel. Every sentiment but despair is foreign to my
soul—nothing can now suit me, but the darkness where I am going to
bury my shame—There will I weep crimes, if I yet can weep; for since
yesterday I have not shed a tear—my withered heart no longer furnishes
any.
Adieu, Madame! Do not reply to this—I have taken a solemn oath on this
letter never to receive another.
_Paris, Nov._ 27, 17—.