ountess of Vercellis, with whom I now lived, was a widow without
children; her husband was a Piedmontese, but I always believed her to be
a Savoyard, as I could have no conception that a native of Piedmont could
speak such good French, and with so pure an accent. She was a
middle-aged woman, of a noble appearance and cultivated understanding,
being fond of French literature, in which she was well versed. Her
letters had the expression, and almost the elegance of Madam de
Savigne's; some of them might have been taken for hers. My principal
employ, which was by no means displeasing to me, was to write from her
dictating; a cancer in the breast, from which she suffered extremely,
not permitting her to write herself.

Madam de Vercellis not only possessed a good understanding, but a strong
and elevated soul. I was with her during her last illness, and saw her
suffer and die, without showing an instant of weakness, or the least
effort of constraint; still retaining her feminine manners, without
entertaining an idea that such fortitude gave her any claim to
philosophy; a word which was not yet in fashion, nor comprehended by her
in the sense it is held at present. This strength of disposition
sometimes extended almost to apathy, ever appearing to feel as little for
others as herself; and when she relieved the unfortunate, it was rather
for the sake of acting right, than from a principle of real
commiseration. I have frequently experienced this insensibility, in some
measure, during the three months I remained with her. It would have been
natural to have had an esteem for a young man of some abilities, who was
incessantly under her observation, and that she should think, as she felt
her dissolution approaching, that after her death he would have occasion
for assistance and support: but whether she judged me unworthy of
particular attention, or that those who narrowly watched all her motions,
gave her no opportunity to think of any but themselves, she did nothing
for me.

I very well recollect that she showed some curiosity to know my story,
frequently questioning me, and appearing pleased when I showed her the
letters I wrote to Madam de Warrens, or explained my sentiments; but as
she never discovered her own, she certainly did not take the right means
to come at them. My heart, naturally communicative, loved to display its
feelings, whenever I encountered a similar disposition; but dry, cold
interrogatories, without