have seen no one to-day. I shall not go out. I prefer to be alone and give myself up to my tears, which are even more abundant to-day than yesterday. As long as I was able to see you I did not realise what our separation meant, but now I have no hope—no comfort in the world. _Grand Dieu!_ why am I fated to be separated from such a lover as you? How sensible I am of your love and tenderness!—they are graven on my heart and memory for ever.... I longed to write to you last night, but I could not, as I had neither paper nor ink. I was very much vexed, for it would have relieved me to have sat down and poured out to you the immensity of my pain and my passion. _Adieu, mon enfant adorable._ I must end, not through my heart’s fault—it is so full that I should never end—but because my eyes hurt me so much.” _Königsmarck to the Princess._ “HANOVER, _June_ 8. “My grief is greater now than when we parted. Your tender caresses kept me from realising all our separation meant at the moment; but now, alas! I am the most miserable man alive. I love, I am loved; my mistress is loving, constant, and true: yet I cannot hope for happy days. Oh! cruel Love, for whom dost thou keep thy sweetness?—for the inconstant and those who love not truly? It seems so, for were love’s sweetness for the constant, we should surely taste more of it. If my sorrow is so overwhelming now, when I am only five leagues from you, what will it be when the fatal day dawns for my departure? Every thousand paces will plant a dagger in my heart, and before I join the army my sobs will have stifled me. But I will gladly suffer torments, and chance all the odds of changeable Fate, if I can only see you again as before, lovable, passionate, constant, charming, gracious, and true. Give me but the hope of our meeting, and I can endure all the cruel woes a cruel absence can cause. I curse the day it entered my mind to ask permission to go to the war. _Dieu!_ can I truly love you when I take so false a step? Hate me, see me no more in your life, forbid the very mention of my name, keep my letters no more, treat me like a dog, like the meanest of men,—I deserve it all! But what advice am I giving you? _Grand Dieu!_ I shudder when I reflect. Were you to take me at my word, what would become of me? Be generous, forgive my fault, have pity on me, for I am losing my head and know not what I say. “I send herein the numbers,[192] which are rather meagre; but never mind—the rest will follow. I cannot conceal from you a misfortune that befell me last night. La Platen, to damn me, sent to beg me to come to supper in the castle behind the mill. I pretended to be ill, but as she insisted and sent a second time, I went, for fear she might guess the cause of my sadness. What bondage!” ----- Footnote 192: This refers to the second cypher—in numbers.