I feel myself unable to support your absence; I feel, my dear friend, that I can never live without you, and this is a fresh subject to me of continual apprehensions. How often do I traverse the scenes which were once the witness of our happy interviews; but, alas! you are no where to be found. I constantly expect you at your usual time; but time comes and goes without your return. Every object of my senses presents a new monument, and every object, alas! reminds me that I have lost you. Whatever your sufferings may be in other respects, you are exempted however from this aggravation. Your heart alone is sufficient to remind you of my unhappy absence. Oh, if you did but know what endless pangs these fruitless expectations, there impatient longings perpetually occasion, how they imbitter and increase the torments I already feel, you would, without hesitation, prefer your condition to mine. If indeed I might give vent to my sad tale, and trust the tender recital of my numberless woes to the kind bosom of a faithful friend, I should in some sort be eased of my misfortunes. But even this relief is denied me, except when I find an opportunity to pour a few tender sighs into the compassionate bosom of my cousin: but in general I am constrained to speak a language quite foreign to my heart, and to assume an air of thoughtless gaiety, when I am ready to sink into the grave. _Sentirsi, Oh Dei, morir, E non poter mai dir, Morir mi Sento!_ A farther circumstance of distress, if any thing more distressful can yet be added, is that my disorder is continually increasing. I have of late thought so gloomily, that I seldom now think otherwise; and the more anxiety I feel at the remembrance of our past pleasures, the more eagerly do I indulge myself in the painful recollection. Tell me, my dear, dear friend, if you can tell me by experience, how nearly allied love is to this tender sorrow, and if disquiet and uneasiness itself be not the cement of the warmest affections? I have a thousand other things to say, but first I would fain know, precisely where you are. Besides, this train of thinking has awakened my passion, and indeed rendered me unfit for writing any more. Adieu, my dear, and though I am obliged to lay down my pen, be assured, I can never think of parting with you. Billet. As this comes to your hands by a waterman, an entire stranger to me, I shall only say at present, that I have taken up my quarters at _Meillerie_, on the opposite shore. I shall now have an opportunity of seeing at least the dear place, which I dare not approach. Letter XXVI. To Eloisa.