ere should be one
person who had been in England, or who knew the English or anything of
their language, to prove me an impostor. The family of Madam de Larnage
might not be pleased with me, and would, perhaps, treat me unpolitely;
her daughter too made me uneasy, for, spite of myself, I thought more of
her than was necessary. I trembled lest I should fall in love with this
girl, and that very fear had already half done the business. Was I
going, in return for the mother's kindness, to seek the ruin of the
daughter? To sow dissension, dishonor, scandal, and hell itself, in her
family? The very idea struck me with horror, and I took the firmest
resolution to combat and vanquish this unhappy attachment, should I be so
unfortunate as to experience it. But why expose myself to this danger?
How miserable must the situation be to live with the mother, whom I
should be weary of, and sigh for the daughter, without daring to make
known my affection! What necessity was there to seek this situation, and
expose myself to misfortunes, affronts and remorse, for the sake of
pleasures whose greatest charm was already exhausted? For I was sensible
this attachment had lost its first vivacity. With these thoughts were
mingled reflections relative to my situation and duty to that good and
generous friend, who already loaded with debts, would become more so from
the foolish expenses I was running into, and whom I was deceiving so
unworthily. This reproach at length became so keen that it triumphed
over every temptation, and on approaching the bridge of St. Esprit I
formed the resolution to burn my whole magazine of letters from
Saint-Andiol, and continue my journey right forward to Chambery.

I executed this resolution courageously, with some sighs I confess, but
with the heart-felt satisfaction, which I enjoyed for the first time in
my life, of saying, "I merit my own esteem, and know how to prefer duty
to pleasure." This was the first real obligation I owed my books, since
these had taught me to reflect and compare. After the virtuous
principles I had so lately adopted, after all the rules of wisdom and
honor I had proposed to myself, and felt so proud to follow, the shame of
possessing so little stability, and contradicting so egregiously my own
maxims, triumphed over the allurements of pleasure. Perhaps, after all,
pride had as much share in my resolution as virtue; but if this pride is
not virtue itself, its effects are so