I pay my debts punctually, my good papa. You should have received a letter on Wednesday, and here is one for Saturday; I am not one of those people who say, “We can do just as we please with our friends. If we do not keep our promises to them in small matters, they can still rely on us not to neglect the great ones…” A great service is a rare thing, and every day, by a thousand multiplied small attentions, we can prove to a friend that we love him. When I am near you, my good papa, everything in me tells you I love you; when I am far from you, I say it in writing. My heart takes sweet satisfaction in saying to itself, “My papa will be aware of my punctuality; he will love me, answer me; our correspondence will soften the pangs of absence.”

I lead a life here that is unvarying, but peaceful. I am with my mother whom I love, with my brother and my children. Every day goes by, and if it does not bring what we call pleasure, at least it brings no trouble. If you were with us, my good papa, along with a few other chosen friends whom I miss, I would want to spend the rest of my life here. Sensitive souls seem to me to be made for living in the country. The tumult of cities, the great passions or little intrigues that disturb the different people who inhabit them: these things are a source of fatigue, not of interest, to gentle beings who find that the essentials of life, plus fresh air and friendship would be enough to keep them happy.

I very much fear that you are already deprived of the presence of our good friends, the Le Veillards. If they are still in Passy, please be so good as to embrace them for me.