Madam de Luxembourg, who knew I had written this letter, spoke to me of it when she came into the country at Easter.  I showed it to her and she was desirous of a copy; this I gave her, but when I did it I did not know she was interested in under-farms, and the displacing of M. de Silhoutte.  By my numerous follies any person would have imagined I wilfully endeavored to bring on myself the hatred of an amiable woman who had power, and to whom, in truth, I daily became more attached, and was far from wishing to occasion her displeasure, although by my awkward manner of proceeding, I did everything proper for that purpose.  I think it superfluous to remark here, that it is to her the history of the opiate of M. Tronchin, of which I have spoken in the first part of my memoirs, relates; the other lady was Madam de Mirepoix.  They have never mentioned to me the circumstance, nor has either of them, in the least, seemed to have preserved a remembrance of it; but to presume that Madam de Luxembourg can possibly have forgotten it appears to me very difficult, and would still remain so, even were the subsequent events entirely unknown.  For my part, I fell into a deceitful security relative to the effects of my stupid mistakes, by an internal evidence of my not having taken any step with an intention to offend; as if a woman could ever forgive what I had done, although she might be certain the will had not the least part in the matter.

Although she seemed not to see or feel anything, and that I did not immediately find either her warmth of friendship diminished or the least change in her manner, the continuation and even increase of a too well founded foreboding made me incessantly tremble, lest disgust should succeed to infatuation.  Was it possible for me to expect in a lady of such high rank, a constancy proof against my want of address to support it?  I was unable to conceal from her this secret foreboding, which made me uneasy, and rendered me still more disagreeable.  This will be judged of by the following letter, which contains a very singular prediction.

N. B. This letter, without date in my rough copy, was written in October, 1760, at latest.

“How cruel is your goodness?  Why disturb the peace of a solitary mortal who had renounced the pleasures of life, that he might no longer suffer the fatigues of them.  I have passed my days in vainly searching for solid attachments.  I have not been able to form any in the ranks to which I was equal; is it in yours that I ought to seek for them?  Neither ambition nor interest can tempt me:  I am not vain, but little fearful; I can resist everything except caresses.  Why do you both attack me by a weakness which I must overcome, because in the distance by which we are separated, the over-flowings of susceptible hearts cannot bring mine near to you?  Will gratitude be sufficient for a heart which knows not two manners of bestowing its affections, and feels itself incapable of everything