n with much art and address, and worthy of the pen whence it
proceeded. This, however, did not abate my desire to answer it, and
notwithstanding the dejection of spirits I then labored under, my griefs
and pains, the severity of the season, and the inconvenience of my new
abode, in which I had not yet had time to arrange myself, I set to work
with a zeal which surmounted every obstacle.

In a severe winter, in the month of February, and in the situation I have
described, I went every day, morning and evening, to pass a couple of
hours in an open alcove which was at the bottom of the garden in which my
habitation stood. This alcove, which terminated an alley of a terrace,
looked upon the valley and the pond of Montmorency, and presented to me,
as the closing point of a prospect, the plain but respectable castle of
St. Gratien, the retreat of the virtuous Catinat. It was in this place,
then, exposed to freezing cold, that without being sheltered from the
wind and snow, and having no other fire than that in my heart; I
composed, in the space of three weeks, my letter to D'Alembert on
theatres. It was in this, for my 'Eloisa' was not then half written,
that I found charms in philosophical labor. Until then virtuous
indignation had been a substitute to Apollo, tenderness and a gentleness
of mind now became so. The injustice I had been witness to had irritated
me, that of which I became the object rendered me melancholy; and this
melancholy without bitterness was that of a heart too tender and
affectionate, and which, deceived by those in whom it had confided, was
obliged to remain concentred. Full of that which had befallen me, and
still affected by so many violent emotions, my heart added the sentiment
of its sufferings to the ideas with which a meditation on my subject had
inspired me; what I wrote bore evident marks of this mixture. Without
perceiving it I described the situation I was then in, gave portraits of
Grimm, Madam d'Epinay, Madam d' Houdetot, Saint Lambert and myself. What
delicious tears did I shed as I wrote! Alas! in these descriptions
there are proofs but too evident that love, the fatal love of which I
made such efforts to cure myself, still remained in my heart. With all
this there was a certain sentiment of tenderness relative to myself; I
thought I was dying, and imagined I bid the public my last adieu. Far
from fearing death, I joyfully saw it approach; but I felt some regret at
leaving my