ion her displeasure, although by my awkward manner
of proceeding, I did everything proper for that purpose. I think it
superfluous to remark here, that it is to her the history of the opiate
of M. Tronchin, of which I have spoken in the first part of my memoirs,
relates; the other lady was Madam de Mirepoix. They have never mentioned
to me the circumstance, nor has either of them, in the least, seemed to
have preserved a remembrance of it; but to presume that Madam de
Luxembourg can possibly have forgotten it appears to me very difficult,
and would still remain so, even were the subsequent events entirely
unknown. For my part, I fell into a deceitful security relative to the
effects of my stupid mistakes, by an internal evidence of my not having
taken any step with an intention to offend; as if a woman could ever
forgive what I had done, although she might be certain the will had not
the least part in the matter.

Although she seemed not to see or feel anything, and that I did not
immediately find either her warmth of friendship diminished or the least
change in her manner, the continuation and even increase of a too well
founded foreboding made me incessantly tremble, lest disgust should
succeed to infatuation. Was it possible for me to expect in a lady of
such high rank, a constancy proof against my want of address to support
it? I was unable to conceal from her this secret foreboding, which made
me uneasy, and rendered me still more disagreeable. This will be judged
of by the following letter, which contains a very singular prediction.

N. B. This letter, without date in my rough copy, was written in
October, 1760, at latest.

"How cruel is your goodness? Why disturb the peace of a solitary mortal
who had renounced the pleasures of life, that he might no longer suffer
the fatigues of them. I have passed my days in vainly searching for
solid attachments. I have not been able to form any in the ranks to
which I was equal; is it in yours that I ought to seek for them? Neither
ambition nor interest can tempt me: I am not vain, but little fearful; I
can resist everything except caresses. Why do you both attack me by a
weakness which I must overcome, because in the distance by which we are
separated, the over-flowings of susceptible hearts cannot bring mine near
to you? Will gratitude be sufficient for a heart which knows not two
manners of bestowing its affections, and feels itself incapable of
everything e