At length, I was sent for to a house, where a little serpent of a girl
amused herself by showing me a parcel of music that I could not read a
note of, and which she had the malice to sing before her master, to teach
him how it should be executed; for I was so unable to read an air at
first sight, that in the charming concert I have just described, I could
not possibly follow the execution a moment, or know whether they played
truly what lay before them, and I myself had composed.

In the midst of so many humiliating circumstances, I had the pleasing
consolation, from time to time, of receiving letters from my two charming
friends. I have ever found the utmost consolatory virtue in the fair;
when in disgrace, nothing softens my affliction more than to be sensible
that an amiable woman is interested for me. This correspondence ceased
soon after, and was never renewed: indeed it was my own fault, for in
changing situations I neglected sending my address, and forced by
necessity to think perpetually of myself, I soon forgot them.

It is a long time since I mentioned Madam de Warrens, but it should not
be supposed I had forgotten her; never was she a moment absent from my
thoughts. I anxiously wished to find her, not merely because she was
necessary to my subsistence, but because she was infinitely more
necessary to my heart. My attachment to her (though lively and tender,
as it really was) did not prevent my loving others, but then it was not
in the same manner. All equally claimed my tenderness for their charms,
but it was those charms alone I loved, my passion would not have survived
them, while Madam de Warrens might have become old or ugly without my
loving her the less tenderly. My heart had entirely transmitted to
herself the homage it first paid to her beauty, and whatever change she
might experience, while she remained herself, my sentiments could not