She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my very
soul. I found her alone, and she was silent: she steadfastly surveyed
me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of
genius: these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much
more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.
Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to take
her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to
her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music
with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely: they seemed
but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued
from the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely
mouth. Oh! who can express my sensations? I was quite overcome, and,
bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful lips, which the angels
guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss." And
yet, my friend, oh, I wish—but my heart is darkened by doubt and
indecision—could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the sin!
What sin?