If I wanted to, my good papa, I would have the right to be somewhat annoyed with you. Without reproaching you, this is my third letter … and from you, no indication that you remember me, not the least little word. Truly, my mind is cross; as for my heart, it loves you so much that it continues to excuse you. It says, “That papa, who is so good, must have had affairs to attend to—perhaps a touch of the gout—God grant that it is only pretty women who have been taking up his time! If he has somewhat forgotten me, he will repent of it, and repentance rekindles a feeling that has cooled. He will think that no one in the world is as sincerely attached to him as I; he will love me and tell me so, and I will be happy.” So says my heart; is it wrong? is it right? It is you, my dear papa, who must relieve me of all these anxieties. We are having rare weather for so late in the year; my brother proposes that Monsieur your [grand]son come spend one or two days with us, if you can spare him from your affairs. My brother would take him on a fine hunt; Maman would receive him with great pleasure. He would bring me news of you, my good papa; that would bring me as close to you as the distance between us could allow. Monsieur your [grand]son would have to be ready to answer my questions; I threaten to overwhelm him with them: what is my papa doing? what is he saying? what is he thinking? how is his health? does he still love me? does he sometimes say so? is there any news from America? is it good news? and so many other things. Everything is interesting to someone who loves well, and I defy all the daughters in the four corners of the earth to love their papas as much as I.