I am weary to death of this place, my dear. How do I already regret your closet, my own, the sweetness of those conversations which an unbounded confidence rendered so animated, those simple amusements, those hours so usefully past in reading. If chagrin sometimes broke in upon our tranquillity, at least coldness never found a place in our hearts: One seems free here, and yet constraint is hid under that seeming liberty: Every one has the freedom of doing what he will, but not of speaking what he thinks. How little satisfaction does the great world, that brilliant society, called good company, give to those who examine it attentively! It is neither taste nor the heart, nor even the hope of pleasure, which draws together these fantastical beings, born to possess much, to desire more, and to enjoy nothing. They seek each other, without being impelled by affection; they meet without being pleased, and part without regret. What is it then, which unites them? Equality of rank, and of fortune, custom, weariness of themselves; that necessity of dissipation, which they feel perpetually, and which seems attached to greatness, riches, and splendor; in short, to all those goods, which Heaven has not equally distributed to all its creatures.

What bonds, my dear, and what friends for a heart like mine! Little accustomed to disguise my sentiments, what pleasure can I find amongst those to whom I cannot avow them, without reserve? One must be in a very happy situation to amuse oneself with those, for whom one has no tenderness; but I am too full of reflection: I weary you, perhaps. Adieu! in whatever humour I am, I love you always; yes, with all my heart.