Why didn’t you want to give me your French letter, my dear papa? Your heart dictated it, and my heart would surely have guessed its meaning if it were not clear, but it is perfectly clear, it answers all my desires; you adopt me as your daughter, just as I have chosen you for my father. In America, you say, you had a daughter who respected and cherished you; I make up for that loss! What could you have said, my dear papa, that would have given me as much pleasure as that? Why then have you naughtily held back such a tender, loving letter for so long? It is because you, accustomed to writing perfectly in your own language, were not able to endure the idea of mediocrity at writing in ours; be reassured, my dear papa; since you are able to think and say only excellent things, your French letters, which contain only a few faults of construction, will always have great merit, even if they are not quite so perfect as your English ones.

Next week I will return to be near you again; may you never leave France! I turn over in my soul what you said to me on this subject the night before last, and I can feel my soul breaking, when it sees the approaching possibility of your departure—if the Americans consult their own best interest, and recognize what it is, they will entrust you alone with the task of strengthening their position here; we love our American allies, but we revere and idolize their leader. The friendship which reigns between the two peoples will always endure, because it can only be extremely useful to both of them; but if the Americans leave you here in France, this union of interests will be matched by a union of souls: a union that will center on you, that your presence will uphold, and that you will finally make the two peoples share, in a great revolution as important as the one in America. A great man who is well-placed should stay in his place, or the just equilibrium which has been found may be destroyed, solely by the mistake of displacing him. Perhaps you believe, my dear papa, that it is my personal interest which makes me see the matter in this light, but no! You know that I promised to write to you one day about what I thought of friendship; in the meantime I am going to tell you what role it plays in my own heart. Friendship, my dear papa, occupies the greatest part of my existence; it is bestowed on only a few objects, whom I love to the point of idolatry; I always feel myself ready to sacrifice my happiness to theirs. I am tenderly, strongly attached to you; if I thought that you would be happier in America than here, I would want to see you leave; your departure would certainly make me quite ill, and would bring with it a bitterness, a sadness that nothing could remove from my heart; but this heart would love to suffer, because the more it suffered, the more it would know that it loved you. Farewell, best of papas of the tenderest of daughters; always love this daughter; do not forget so often that you are her father. You remember what I told you on the meadow, about evil tongues in this country; my dear papa, no matter how pure our intention, we are judged only on appearances; it is unfair, I agree, but people are often unfair. A wise person pities them and does not try to reform them; let us be wise, then, accept their injustice, and conform. I have the honor to be, my dear papa, your very humble and very obedient servant