world, I give to you; so that I hardly advance in the region
of detachment; and you know the true way towards a devout life lies in
some degree of effacement, first of all, of that which our heart holds
dearest.

One of my great desires is to become devout. Every day I am tormented by
this idea. I do not belong to God, neither do I belong to the Devil;
this indecision is a perpetual torment to me, although between
ourselves, I believe this state to be a most natural one. One does not
belong to the Devil, because one fears God: also, one does not belong to
God, because His law is hard, and one does not like to renounce oneself.
These are the luke-warm, and their great number does not surprise me at
all; I can enter into their reasonings; but God hates them; therefore we
must cease to serve in this state--and there is the difficulty.

I am overwhelmed by the death of M. du Mans; I had never thought of
death in connection with him. Yet he has died of a trifling fever,
without having had time to think either of heaven or of earth.
Providence sometimes shows its authority by sudden visitations, from
which we should profit.

What you say as to the anxieties which we so often and so naturally feel
about the future, and as to how our inclinations are insensibly changed
by necessity, is a subject worthy of a book like Pascal's; nothing is so
satisfying, nothing so useful as meditations of this kind. But how many
people of your age think this? I know of none; and I honour your sound
reasoning and courage. With me it is not so, especially when my heart
afflicts me; my words are indifferently good; I write as those who speak
well; but the depth of my feeling kills me. This I feel when I write to
you of the pain of separation. I have not myself found the proverb true,
"To cloak oneself according to the cold." I have no cloak against cold
like this. Yet I manage to find occupation, and the time passes somehow.
But in general it is true that our thoughts and inclinations turn into
other channels, and our sorrows cease to be such.

_Love of Life_

You ask me, dear child, if I am still in love with life. I must confess
that I find its sorrows grievous, but my distaste for death is even
stronger. It is sad to think I must finish my life with death, and if it
were possible I would retrace my steps. I find myself embarked on life
without my consent, and am in a perplexing situation. I shall have to
take leave of life, and the fac