Monsieur de Monbert is the most witty and agreeable man in Paris; he is
noble-hearted, generous and ...in fact fascinating!... and I love him!
He alone pleases me; in his absence I weary of everything; in his
presence I am satisfied and happy--the hours glide away uncounted; I
have perfect faith in his good heart and sound judgment, and proudly
recognise his incontestable superiority--yes, I admire, respect, and, I
repeat it, love him!...

Yet, the promise I have made to dedicate my life to him, frightens me,
and for a month I have had but one thought--to postpone this marriage I
wished for--to fly from this man whom I have chosen!...

I question my heart, my experience, my imagination, for an answer to
this inexplicable contradiction; and to interpret so many fears, find
nothing but school-girl philosophy and poetic fancies, which you will
excuse because you love me, and I _know_ my imaginary sufferings will at
least awaken pity in your sympathetic breast.

Yes, my dear Valentine, I am more to be pitied now, than I was in the
days of my distress and desolation. I, who so courageously braved the
blows of adversity, feel weak and trembling under the weight of a too
brilliant fortune.

This happy destiny for which I alone am responsible, alarms me more than
did the bitter lot that was forced upon me one year ago.

The actual trials of poverty exhaust the field of thought and prevent us
from nursing imaginary cares, for when we have undergone the torture of
our own forebodings, struggled with the impetuosity and agony of a
nature surrendered to itself, we are disposed to look almost with relief