“The joy I feel at knowing that you are out of danger is very great, and I pray Heaven you will soon lose your weakness. If it will only go away, I shall not mind if it leave you pale and thin and reduced to a shadow. My only wish is that you suffer no longer. I should be unhappy indeed were my love only inspired by your beauty, for in twenty-four hours, nay, even less, your loveliness might change to ugliness, and then where should I be? My love is founded on more solid qualities, and it will never change even when you are eighty years old. The beauty of person is but a passing thing, but the beauty of merit lasts for eternity. I am not a man to be in love with mere beauty; it often dazzles me, but never blinds me, for I have frequently noticed that where beauty is so great merit is very little. I vow to you still that I do not know when my love for you has made me easy for even a quarter of an hour; even now scarcely a night goes by but I sit up half the time fearing this and fearing that. I sometimes think if I had done right I should never have paid you my court, for I ought to have thought about the future and all the consequences that would follow upon our love. But then, _I knew you_, and I gave myself up to you. I could not listen to reason, but only to my heart. Too late I see all the obstacles in the way of our happiness, and I know you see them too. You have more to lose than I have, in the rank you are; but we cannot alter that, so, _ma chérie_, let us have pity on each other and hate the fate which makes us so unhappy. Do not think that I shall ever repent having devoted myself to you. No, no! my divine Léonnisse; had I to begin all over again I should do the same thing. My passion carries me away. I cannot write so coldly as you did for four whole pages, but no doubt your weakness made your love seem weak. I will say what my true and sound heart dictates. In spite of all obstacles if only you will not waver, I will show you a constancy that will last till death. Ah! my dear, my dear! true heart wounds are incurable. All joy, all danger, make no difference. They only bring home to me that nothing is dearer than the love I bear for you; and the more dangers, the more difficulties there are to be overcome, the greater will be the victory. The conquest of the whole world is nothing to me compared with the conquest of your heart. When the time comes for us to be together always, we will sing, ‘How delightful is this place! Let us taste its delights.’ But when will that happy hour dawn? I am waiting for it with intense impatience. It is ‘better late than never,’—a detestable proverb for loving hearts, but what would you?