vivacity, darted that innate fire which inflamed my blood; unfortunately for me, I knew nothing of all this, never having bestowed a single thought on my person till it was too late to be of any service to me.  The timidity common to my age was heightened by a natural benevolence, which made me dread the idea of giving pain.  Though my mind had received some cultivation, having seen nothing of the world, I was an absolute stranger to polite address, and my mental acquisitions, so far from supplying this defect, only served to increase my embarrassment, by making me sensible of every deficiency.

Depending little, therefore, on external appearances, I had recourse to other expedients:  I wrote a most elaborate letter, where, mingling all the flowers of rhetoric which I had borrowed from books with the phrases of an apprentice, I endeavored to strike the attention, and insure the good will of Madam de Warrens.  I enclosed M. de Pontverre’s letter in my own and waited on the lady with a heart palpitating with fear and expectation.  It was Palm Sunday, of the year 1728; I was informed she was that moment gone to church; I hasten after her, overtake, and speak to her.—­The place is yet fresh in my memory—­how can it be otherwise? often have I moistened it with my tears and covered it with kisses.—­Why cannot I enclose with gold the happy spot, and render it the object of universal veneration?  Whoever wishes to honor monuments of human salvation would only approach it on their knees.

It was a passage at the back of the house, bordered on the left hand by a little rivulet, which separated it from the garden, and, on the right, by the court yard wall; at the end was a private door which opened into the church of the Cordeliers.  Madam de Warrens was just passing this door; but on hearing my voice, instantly turned about.  What an effect did the sight of her produce!  I expected to see a devout, forbidding old woman; M. de Pontverre’s pious and worthy lady could be no other in my conception; instead of which, I see a face beaming with charms, fine blue eyes full of sweetness, a complexion whose whiteness dazzled the sight, the form of an enchanting neck, nothing escaped the eager eye of the young proselyte; for that instant I was hers!—­a religion preached by such missionaries must lead to paradise!

My letter was presented with a trembling hand; she took it with a smile —­opened it, glanced an eye over M. de Pontverre’s and again returned to mine, which she read through and would have read again, had not the footman that instant informed her that service was beginning—­“Child,” said she, in a tone of voice which made every nerve vibrate, “you are wandering about at an early age—­it is really a pity!”—­and without waiting for an answer, added—­“Go to my house, bid them give you something for breakfast, after mass, I will speak to you.”