change her religion, she was certainly sincere in that she had embraced;
she might find sufficient occasion to repent having abjured her former
faith, but no inclination to return to it. She not only died a good
Catholic, but truly lived one; nay, I dare affirm (and I think I have had
the opportunity to read the secrets of her heart) that it was only her
aversion to singularity that prevented her acting the devotee in public;
in a word, her piety was too sincere to give way to any affectation of
it. But this is not the place to enlarge on her principles: I shall find
other occasions to speak of them.

Let those who deny the existence of a sympathy of souls, explain, if they
know how, why the first glance, the first word of Madam de Warrens
inspired me, not only with a lively attachment, but with the most
unbounded confidence, which has since known no abatement. Say this was
love (which will at least appear doubtful to those who read the sequel of
our attachment) how could this passion be attended with sentiments which
scarce ever accompany its commencement, such as peace, serenity,
security, and confidence. How, when making application to an amiable and
polished woman, whose situation in life was so superior to mine, so far
above any I had yet approached, on whom, in a great measure, depended my
future fortune by the degree of interest she might take in it; how, I say
with so many reasons to depress me, did I feel myself as free, as much at
my ease, as if I had been perfectly secure of pleasing her! Why did I
not experience a moment of embarrassment, timidity or restraint?
Naturally bashful, easily confused, having seen nothing of the world,
could I, the first time, the first moment I beheld her, adopt caressing
language, and a familiar tone, as readily as after ten years' intimacy
had rendered these freedoms natural? Is it possible to possess love, I
will not say without desires, for I certainly had them, but without
inquietude, without jealousy? Can we avoid feeling an anxious wish at