After having given up the manuscript, I remained some time without determining upon the work which should succeed it, and this interval of inactivity was destructive; by permitting me to turn my reflections on myself, for want of another object to engage my attention.  I had no project for the future which could amuse my imagination.  It was not even possible to form any, as my situation was precisely that in which all my desires were united.  I had not another to conceive, and yet there was a void in my heart.  This state was the more cruel, as I saw no other that was to be preferred to it.  I had fixed my most tender affections upon a person who made me a return of her own.  I lived with her without constraint, and, so to speak, at discretion.  Notwithstanding this, a secret grief of mind never quitted me for a moment, either when she was present or absent.  In possessing Theresa, I still perceived she wanted something to her happiness; and the sole idea of my not being everything to her had such an effect upon my mind that she was next to nothing to me.

I had friends of both sexes, to whom I was attached by the purest friendship and most perfect esteem; I depended upon a real return on their part, and a doubt of their sincerity never entered my mind; yet this friendship was more tormenting than agreeable to me, by their obstinate perseverance and even by their affectation, in opposing my taste, inclinations and manner of living; and this to such a degree, that the moment I seemed to desire a thing which interested myself only, and depended not upon them, they immediately joined their efforts to oblige me to renounce it.  This continued desire to control me in all my wishes, the more unjust, as I did not so much as make myself acquainted with theirs, became so cruelly oppressive, that I never received one of their letters without feeling a certain terror as I opened it, and which was but too well justified by the contents.  I thought being treated like a child by persons younger than myself, and who, of themselves, stood in great need of the advice they so prodigally bestowed on me, was too much:  “Love me,” said I to them, “as I love you, but, in every other respect, let my affairs be as indifferent to you, as yours are to me:  this is all I ask.”  If they granted me one of these two requests, it was not the latter.

I had a retired residence in a charming solitude, was master of my own house, and could live in it in the manner I thought proper, without being controlled by any person.  This habitation imposed on me duties agreeable to discharge, but which were indispensable.  My liberty was precarious.  In a greater state of subjection than a person at the command of another, it was my duty to be so by inclination.  When I arose in the morning, I never could say to myself, I will employ this day as I think proper.  And, moreover, besides my being subject to obey the call of Madam d’Epinay, I was exposed to the still