The hope I had of seeing you here, my dear papa, prevented me from writing to invite you to tea on Saturday. Hope is the remedy of all our ills; if we suffer, we hope for the pain to end; if we are with friends, we hope to stay with them always; if we are far from them, we hope to go meet them again. Only this final degree of hope is left me; I am going to count the days, the hours, the moments; every moment that has passed will bring me closer to you. One loves to grow old when it is the only way of being reunited with those one loves; man, who values his life so much, seeks constantly to shorten it; he makes plans, he desires; without the prospect of the future it seems to him that he has nothing.—“When my children are grown…”— “In ten years, the trees in my garden will give me shade…”— The years slip away, then we regret them.—“I could have done such and such,” we say then.—“If I were only twenty-five again, I would not do that foolish thing that I am sorry for now.”—Only the wise man enjoys the present, does not regret the past, and peacefully awaits the future. This wise man, like you, my papa, has spent his youth educating himself and enlightening his fellows; he has spent his mature years obtaining freedom for them; now he casts a contented eye on the past, enjoys the present, and awaits the future recompense of his labors. But how many wise people are there? I try to become one of them, and in certain points I succeed: I care nothing for wealth, vanity has little hold over my heart, I love to carry out my duties, I willingly pardon society its errors and injustices. But I love my friends with an idolatry that often does me much harm; a prodigious imagination and a fiery soul will always prevail over all my plans and reflections. I see it, my papa; the only perfection to which I must ever lay claim is that of loving to the greatest degree possible. May this quality make you always love your daughter!

Will you not write me a word? A word from you gives me so much pleasure; it is always good French to say, je vous aime; my heart always goes out to such a dear word, when it is you who say it to me.

Clearly you always know how to combine great wisdom with a dash of roguishness. You ask Monsieur Brillon for news of me just as you receive my letter, you play the part of one forsaken at the very moment you are being pampered, and then you laugh like a crazy man when the secret is discovered. Oh, I know what you have been up to.

Farewell, my kind papa; our good neighbors are leaving, and there will be no more days of meeting you at tea. Nevertheless I will write to you at least once a week; may you find my letters a pleasure, just as my heart finds it a necessity to love you and to tell you so. I have the honor to be your very humble and very obedient servant