As I walked I reflected that autumn had come for me also, and that the radiant summer had passed, never to return; the tree of my mind was even more stripped of its leaves perhaps than the trees in the forest; hardly one tiny green leaf remained on the topmost branch, swaying to and fro and trembling, all sad to see its sisters leave it one by one. Remain upon the tree, O little leaf of the color of hope, cling to the branch with all the strength of thy nerves and fibres; be not alarmed by the whistling of the wind, O dear little leaf! for when thou hast left me, who will be able to distinguish whether I am a dead or living tree, and who will prevent the wood-cutter from cutting through my foot with his axe and making firewood of my branches?--It is not yet the time when the trees shed all their leaves, and the sun may still throw off the swaddling-clothes of mist that surround it. The spectacles of the dying season made a deep impression upon me. I reflected that time was passing swiftly and that I might die without having pressed my ideal to my heart. When I returned to my room I had formed a resolution.--As I cannot make up my mind to speak, I wrote my whole destiny upon a slip of paper.--It is absurd perhaps to write to a person who is living in the same house with yourself, whom you can see every day, at any hour; but I am beyond caring whether it is absurd or not. I sealed my letter, not without trembling and changing color; then, selecting a moment when Théodore had gone out, I placed it in the middle of his table and fled, as disturbed as if I had committed a most outrageous act. [Footnote 1: _As You Like It._] [Footnote 2: The last word in this quotation, which justifies the succeeding epithets, is not in the English version of the play.] XII I promised you the sequel of my adventures; but really I am so sluggish about writing that I must love you as the apple of my eye and know you to be more curious than Eve or Psyche, to place myself in front of a table with a huge sheet of white paper which I must make black, and an inkstand deeper than the sea, each drop in which is destined to turn into thoughts, or at least into something resembling thoughts, without forming a sudden resolution to mount my horse and ride at full speed the eighty endless leagues that lie between us, in order to tell you _viva voce_ what I propose to write in imperceptible fly-tracks, so that I may not be dismayed myself by the prodigious volume of my _picaresque_ odyssey. Eighty leagues! to think that there is all that space between myself and the person I love best in the world!--I have an intense longing to tear up my letter and order my horse to be saddled.--But I will think no more of it--with the clothes I am wearing, I could not approach you and resume the familiar life we led together when we were very artless and innocent little girls; if ever I go back to my petticoats it will certainly be for that purpose.