My physician answered for my life, if I remained at St. Germain, and she at last consented to leave me. The excessive tenderness she showed on parting with me, calmed me for an instant; but after her departure, the real and complete loneliness I was left in for the first time, threw me into despair. The vision was realized that my imagination had so long dwelt upon; I was dying far away from those I loved; the sound of my lamentations reached not their ear. Alas! it would but have disturbed their joy. I fancied them given up to the most ecstatic bliss, whilst I lay pining on my sickbed. They were all I cared for in the world, but they wanted not my care. I had but them through life, yet I was not wanted by them. The frightful conviction of the uselessness of my existence made me sick of it. It was a pang not to be endured, and sincerely I prayed that I might die of my illness. I neither spoke or gave any sign of life. The only distinct idea I could express in my mind was, _I wish I could die_. Then at other times I became excessively agitated. All that had passed in my last conversation with Charles rushed into my mind. I saw him lost in the ocean of delight he had pictured to me, whilst I was abandoned to a death as solitary as my life. This produced a kind of irritation, more painful to endure than grief; I increased it by filling my brain with chimeras; I fancied Charles coming to St Germain, being told that I was dead, and being made miserable by my death. Can it be believed? The idea, of grieving him rejoiced me. It would be a revenge. Revenge! for what? for his goodness, for his having been the protecting angel of my life? Such guilty thoughts were soon replaced by horror, at having conceived them. My grief I thought no crime, but thus giving way to it, might lead to one: then I tried to collect my inward strength, that it might fight against this irritation; but even that I sought not where I should have found it. I was ashamed of my ingratitude. Oh! let me die, I exclaimed, but let no wicked passions enter my heart. Ourika is a portionless orphan, but innocence is yet her's. Let her not tarnish it by ingratitude. She will pass away like a shadow upon earth, but in her grave she will at least rest in peace. Her friends are all happy, then let Ourika be so, and die as the leaves fall in autumn? I fell into a state of languor when this dangerous fever left me. Madame de B. continued to reside at St. Germain, after Charles's marriage. He often visited her, accompanied by his Anais, never without her. I always suffered more when they were present. I know not whether the image of their happiness made me feel my misfortune more acutely, or that the sight of Charles renewed my remembrance of our old friendship, which I sought to find what it once was, but could not. Yet he always spoke to me just as before: it resembled the friendship he used to show me, as the artificial flower does the natural one. It was the same, except