She gave me a letter for M. d’Antoine, without asking me whether I intended to go back to Parma, but, even if such had not been my intention, I should have determined at once upon returning to that city.  She likewise entreated me not to leave Geneva until I had received a letter which she promised to, write to me from the first stage on her journey.  She started at day-break, having with her a maid, a footman on the box of the carriage, and being preceded by a courier on horseback.  I followed her with my eyes as long as I could, see her carriage, and I was still standing on the same spot long after my eyes had lost sight of it.  All my thoughts were wrapped up in the beloved object I had lost for ever.  The world was a blank!

I went back to my room, ordered the waiter not to disturb me until the return of the horses which had drawn Henriette’s carriage, and I lay down on my bed in the hope that sleep would for a time silence a grief which tears could not drown.

The postillion who had driven Henriette did not return till the next day; he had gone as far as Chatillon.  He brought me a letter in which I found one single word:  Adieu!  He told me that they had reached Chatillon without accident, and that the lady had immediately continued her journey towards Lyons.  As I could not leave Geneva until the following day, I spent alone in my room some of the most melancholy hours of my life.  I saw on one of the panes of glass of a window these words which she had traced with the point of a diamond I had given her:  “You will forget Henriette.”  That prophecy was not likely to afford me any consolation.  But had she attached its full meaning to the word “forget?” No; she could only mean that time would at last heal the deep wounds of my heart, and she ought not to have made it deeper by leaving behind her those words which sounded like a reproach.  No, I have not forgotten her, for even now, when my head is covered with white hair, the recollection of her is still a source of happiness for my heart!  When I think that in my old age I derive happiness only from my recollections of the past, I find that my long life must have counted more bright than dark days, and offering my thanks to God, the Giver of all, I congratulate myself, and confess that life is a great blessing.

The next day I set off again for Italy with a servant recommended by M. Tronchin, and although the season was not favourable I took the road over Mont St. Bernard, which I crossed in three days, with seven mules carrying me, my servant, my luggage, and the carriage sent by the banker to the beloved woman now for ever lost to me.  One of the advantages of a great sorrow is that nothing else seems painful.  It is a sort of despair which is not without some sweetness.  During that journey I never felt either hunger or thirst, or the cold which is so intense in that part of the Alps that the whole of nature seems to turn to ice, or the fatigue inseparable from such a difficult and dangerous journey.