of my life has been accompanied.
But do you know in what manner I will make amends for my faults during
the short space of time I have to remain near to you? By doing what
nobody but myself would do; by telling you freely what the world thinks
of you, and the breaches you have to repair in your reputation.
Notwithstanding all the pretended friends by whom you are surrounded, the
moment you see me depart you may bid adieu to truth, you will no longer
find any person who will tell it to you."

THIRD LETTER FROM THE SAME.

"I did not understand your letter of this morning; this I told you
because it was the case. I understand that of this evening; do not
imagine I shall ever return an answer to it; I am too anxious to forget
what it contains; and although you excite my pity, I am not proof against
the bitterness with which it has filled my mind. I! descend to trick
and cunning with you! I! accused of the blackest of all infamies!
Adieu, I regret your having the adieu. I know not what I say adieu:
I shall be very anxious to forgive you. You will come when you please;
you will be better received than your suspicions deserve. All I have to
desire of you is not to trouble yourself about my reputation. The
opinion of the world concerning me is of but little importance in my
esteem. My conduct is good, and this is sufficient for me. Besides, I
am ignorant of what has happened to the two persons who are dear to me as
they are to you."

This last letter extricated me from a terrible embarrassment, and threw
me into another of almost the same magnitude. Although these letters and
answers were sent and returned the same day with an extreme rapidity, the
interval had been sufficient to place another between my rage and
transport, and to give me time to reflect on the enormity of my
imprudence. Madam d'Houdetot had not recommended to me anything so much
as to remain quiet, to leave her the care of extricating herself, and to
avoid, especially at that moment, all noise and rupture; and I, by the
most open and atrocious insults, took the properest means of carrying
rage to its greatest height in the heart of a woman who was already but
too well disposed to it. I now could naturally expect nothing from her
but an answer so haughty, disdainful, and expressive of contempt, that I
could not, without the utmost meanness, do otherwise than immediately
quit her house. Happily she, more adroit than I was furious, avoided,