as they are
uttered, which remain in the memory alone, but which one can neither
see, touch nor kiss, as one can with the words written by your hand.

Your letters? Yes, I am returning them to you! But with what
sorrow!

Undoubtedly, you must have had an after thought of delicate shame at
expressions that are ineffaceable. In your sensitive and timid soul
you must have regretted having written to a man that you loved him.
You remembered sentences that called up recollections, and you said
to yourself: "I will make ashes of those words."

Be satisfied, be calm. Here are your letters. I love you.

MY FRIEND:

No, you have not understood me, you have not guessed. I do not
regret, and I never shall, that I told you of my affection.

I will always write to you, but you must return my letters to me as
soon as you have read them.

I shall shock you, my friend, when I tell you the reason for this
demand. It is not poetic, as you imagined, but practical. I am
afraid, not of you, but of some mischance. I am guilty. I do not
wish my fault to affect others than myself.

Understand me well. You and I may both die. You might fall off
your horse, since you ride every day; you might die from a sudden
attack, from a duel, from heart disease, from a carriage accident,
in a thousand ways. For, if there is only one death, there are more
ways of its reaching us than there are days or us to live.

Then your sisters, your brother, or your sister-in-law might find my
letters! Do you think that they love me? I doubt it. And then,
even if they adored me, is it possible for two women and one man to
know a secret--such a secret!--and not to tell of it?

I seem to be saying very disagreeable things, speaking first of your
death, and then suspecting the discreetness of your relatives.

But don't all of us die sooner or later? And it is almost certain
that one of us will precede the other under the ground. We must
therefore foresee all dangers, even that one.

As for me, I will keep your letters beside mine, in the secret of my
little desk. I will show them to you there, sleeping side by side
in their silken hiding place, full of our love, like lovers in a
tomb.

You will say to me: "But if you should die first, my dear, your
husband will find these letters."

Oh! I fear nothing. First of all, he does not know th