This is the last letter that I will write to you, my dear papa; I return to Passy next Monday. I will tell you better in a single look how much I love you, than I would be able to explain in ten pages. Feeling needs no commentary; friendship is better felt than explained. I do not know whether you are satisfied with what I write to you; for my part, I am often very dissatisfied with it. It seems to me that I always fall short of the goal; if I were not reassured by your friendship and your indulgence, and if the carelessness and lack of proficiency I find in my sentences were not excused in my own eyes by the fact that I lay but little claim to fine speaking, I would often keep silent; but my papa loves me, he loves to know that I am thinking of him, he loves it when I tell him so. My heart, which is always ready to tell him so, guides my pen, along with the word “aimer”, which can always be found on the pen’s tip. I write, I seal up what I have written, the post departs, and soon he will have a volume of my letters, both good and bad; I shall not be able to boast of having as many from him! Should I complain?—No, one must never complain of one’s friends! I will say to papa only that his letters have given me and would still give me great pleasure; if he feels that any wrong has been done, he will make amends for it. Farewell, kindest of papas. Monday, yes, Monday I will go to see you; Monday you will console me for having left Maman. I love Maman tenderly; it would be as hard for me not to love what is good and kind, as it would be for wicked people to love virtue. I am, with the most respectful and most tender sentiments, my dear papa, your very humble and very obedient servant