rs us, and my heart is incapable
of loving twice." I exhausted myself with sighs; I embraced her--what an
embrace! But this was all. She had lived alone for the last six months,
that is absent from her husband and lover; I had seen her almost every
day during three months, and love seldom failed to make a third. We had
supped tete-a-tete, we were alone, in the grove by moonlight, and after
two hours of the most lively and tender conversation, she left this grove
at midnight, and the arms of her lover, as morally and physically pure as
she had entered it. Reader, weigh all these circumstances; I will add
nothing more.

Do not, however, imagine that in this situation my passions left me as
undisturbed as I was with Theresa and mamma. I have already observed
I was this time inspired not only with love, but with love and all its
energy and fury. I will not describe either the agitations, tremblings,
palpitations, convulsionary emotions, nor faintings of the heart,
I continually experienced; these may be judged of by the effect her image
alone made upon me. I have observed the distance from the Hermitage to
Eaubonne was considerable; I went by the hills of Andilly, which are
delightful; I mused, as I walked, on her whom I was going to see, the
charming reception she would give me, and upon the kiss which awaited me
at my arrival. This single kiss, this pernicious embrace, even before
I received it, inflamed my blood to such a degree as to affect my head,
my eyes were dazzled, my knees trembled, and were unable to support me;
I was obliged to stop and sit down; my whole frame was in inconceivable
disorder, and I was upon the point of fainting. Knowing the danger,
I endeavored at setting out to divert my attention from the object,
and think of something else. I had not proceeded twenty steps before the
same recollection, and all that was the consequence of it, assailed me in
such a manner that it was impossible to avoid them, and in spite of all
my efforts I do not believe I ever made this little excursion alone with
impunity. I arrived at Eaubonne, weak, exhausted, and scarcely able to
support myself. The moment I saw her everything was repaired; all I felt
in her presence was the importunity of an inexhaustible and useless
ardor. Upon the road to Raubonne there was a pleasant terrace called
Mont Olympe, at which we sometimes met. I arrived first, it was proper I
should wait for her; but how dear this waiting co