It will not be so with you, who did not love me, save with anxiety.

I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have yielded out of a fear of bringing about my death, or lessening the esteem I had for you.
It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing that _you_ are free and satisfied.

How much, then, will you love me, when you will no longer fear either my presence or reproaches?
You will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him.

I have allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed.

Many people tell me that you loved me enough to lead me to hope you would have loved me much.