So now I am reduced to writing to you, my good papa, and telling you that I love you; no doubt it was sweeter to let you read it in my eyes. How am I going to pass my Wednesdays and Saturdays—no tea, no chess, no music, no hope of seeing or embracing my good papa? It seems to me that the sense of privation I feel at being far away from you would suffice to make me change my mind, should I ever be inclined to materialism. Happiness is so uncertain, so full of setbacks, that only the inner conviction that we will be happier in another life can make us endure the troubles of this one. In paradise, we shall be reunited, never to leave each other again! We shall live there on roasted apples only; music will be made up solely of Scottish tunes; all chess games will end in a tie, so that nobody will be sorry; the same language will be spoken by all; the English, there, will be neither unjust nor wicked; women will not be coquettish, men will be neither jealous nor too enterprising; King John will be permitted to eat his apples in peace; perhaps he will even be civil enough to offer some to his neighbors, as we will lack nothing in paradise—who knows? There shall be no gout, no nervous upsets; Mr. Him Self [Mesmer] will be content to play the harmonica, without harassing us about electric fluid. Ambition, envy, conceit, jealousy, prejudices, all will vanish at the sound of the trumpet; a lasting, sweet and peaceful friendship will animate every society. We will love one another every day, only to love one another still more the day after; in short, we will be perfectly happy. In the meantime, let us get all the good we can from this earthly life. I am far from you, my good papa; I think about the moment of our reunion, and I take pleasure in the thought that your regrets and desires are equal to mine.

My mother and my children present you with a thousand tender respects; all of us would like to have you here. Might I ask you to remember us to your grandson?