[Beginning lost.] I will not say anything to you about Mademoiselle Biheron, who has the honor of writing to you herself, and who loves to talk about you almost as much as I do. But I protest to you that my wife is so taken by the same passion for you that our priests and our monks have less influence over her mind every day… nevertheless let this be said between us two in secret. It is certain that if her health were stronger, she would willingly let herself be taken to London to kiss you once again, as well as Mr. Pringle, whom she also singles out for very special honor. As for me, I fear next spring more than anyone has ever feared the winter season, and from time to time I console myself with the sweet hope that your compatriots will find it necessary to extend your stay in London, and that they will detain you there, and that you will pass the straits of Calais once more. May God grant it, and furnish me with the opportunity to give you effective proof of how perfectly and inviolably attached I am to you, Monsieur and dear friend. Your very humble and very obedient servant