I wanted to write to you the day before yesterday, my good papa; Monsieur your [grand]son came to see me, and I asked him to tell you that I was expecting you yesterday. Yesterday your affairs prevented you from coming; today my heart would suffer too much if it resisted the need to tell you that it loves you. To love, to express that love, to yearn to be loved in return: these things are as necessary to a sensitive being, as fresh air for breathing is necessary to an asthmatic. Here I am, happy to have repeated what I have already told you a thousand times—what it would be impossible for you to doubt. So am I talking nonsense? Oh no, friendship never talks nonsense; like her mischievous brother, she has the ability to repeat ceaselessly one thing that always appears new; but her faith is more complete and more disinterested than his. To a friend, all of our secrets are a cherished possession (perhaps not to a lover). You know, my good papa, how deeply you can read into my heart; you know, because of the importance of what I last confided in you, that you must be, and are indeed, my best friend. May you take as much pleasure in this certainty as I will always take in assuring you of it.

Since I do not leave my room at all, will you not make up to me the evening that I lost yesterday?