eal the deep wounds of my heart, and
she ought not to have made it deeper by leaving behind her those words
which sounded like a reproach. No, I have not forgotten her, for even
now, when my head is covered with white hair, the recollection of her is
still a source of happiness for my heart! When I think that in my old age
I derive happiness only from my recollections of the past, I find that my
long life must have counted more bright than dark days, and offering my
thanks to God, the Giver of all, I congratulate myself, and confess that
life is a great blessing.

The next day I set off again for Italy with a servant recommended by M.
Tronchin, and although the season was not favourable I took the road over
Mont St. Bernard, which I crossed in three days, with seven mules
carrying me, my servant, my luggage, and the carriage sent by the banker
to the beloved woman now for ever lost to me. One of the advantages of a
great sorrow is that nothing else seems painful. It is a sort of despair
which is not without some sweetness. During that journey I never felt
either hunger or thirst, or the cold which is so intense in that part of
the Alps that the whole of nature seems to turn to ice, or the fatigue
inseparable from such a difficult and dangerous journey.

I arrived in Parma in pretty good health, and took up my quarters at a
small inn, in the hope that in such a place I should not meet any
acquaintance of mine. But I was much disappointed, for I found in that
inn M. de la Haye, who had a room next to mine. Surprised at seeing me,
he paid me a long compliment, trying to make me speak, but I eluded his
curiosity by telling him that I was tired, and that we would see each
other again.

On the following day I called upon M. d'Antoine, and delivered the letter
which Henriette had written to him. He opened it in my presence, and
finding another to my address enclosed in his, he handed it to me without
reading it, although it was not sealed. Thinking, however, that it might
have been Henriette's intention that he should read it because it was
open, he asked my permission to do so, which I granted with pleasure as
soon as I had myself perused it. He handed it back to me after he had
read it, telling me very feelingly that I could in everything rely upon
him and upon his influence and credit.

Here is Henriette's letter

"It is I, dearest and best friend, who have been compelled to abandon
you, but do not let your grief be in