r to drag myself along. I remained stupid and
immovable. The idea alone of a step to take, a letter to write, or a
word to say, made me tremble. I could not however do otherwise than
reply to the letter of Madam d'Epinay without acknowledging myself to be
worthy of the treatment with which she and her friend overwhelmed me. I
determined upon notifying to her my sentiments and resolutions, not
doubting a moment that from humanity, generosity, propriety, and the good
manner of thinking, I imagined I had observed in her, notwithstanding her
bad one, she would immediately subscribe to them. My letter was as
follows:

HERMITAGE 23d NOV., 1757.

"Were it possible to die of grief I should not now be alive.

"But I have at length determined to triumph over everything. Friendship,
madam, is extinguished between us, but that which no longer exists still
has its rights, and I respect them.

"I have not forgotten your goodness to me, and you may, on my part, expect
as much gratitude as it is possible to have towards a person I no longer
can love. All further explanation would be useless. I have in my favor
my own conscience, and I return you your letter.

"I wished to quit the Hermitage, and I ought to have done it. My friends
pretend I must stay there until spring; and since my friends desire it I
will remain there until that season if you will consent to my stay."

After writing and despatching this letter all I thought of was remaining
quiet at the Hermitage and taking care of my health; of endeavoring to
recover my strength, and taking measures to remove in the spring without
noise or making the rupture public. But these were not the intentions
either of Grimm or Madam d'Epinay, as it will presently appear.

A few days afterwards, I had the pleasure of receiving from Diderot the
visit he had so frequently promised, and in which he had as constantly
failed. He could not have come more opportunely; he was my oldest
friend: almost the only one who remained to me; the pleasure I felt in
seeing him, as things were circumstanced, may easily be imagined. My
heart was full, and I disclosed it to him. I explained to him several
facts which either had not come to his knowledge, or had been disguised
or suppressed. I informed him, as far as I could do it with propriety,
of all that had passed. I did not affect to conceal from him that with
which he was but too well acquainted, t