Yes, I dare to face our mutual old age, to see ourselves with whitening heads, like the venerable historian of Italy, inspired always with the same affection but transformed in soul by our life's seasons.

Hear me, I can no longer be your friend only.

Though Chrysale, Geronte, and Argante re-live, you say, in me, I am not yet old enough to drink from the cup held to my lips by the sweet hands of a veiled woman without a passionate desire to tear off the domino and the mask and see the face.

Either write me no more, or give me hope.
Let me see you, or let me go.

Must I bid you adieu?
Will you permit me to sign myself, Your Friend?
To Monsieur de Canalis,--What flattery! with what rapidity is the grave Anselme transformed into a handsome Leander! To what must I attribute such a change?
to this black which I put upon this white?
to these ideas which are to the flowers of my soul what a rose drawn in charcoal is to the roses in the garden?
Or is it to a recollection of the young girl whom you took for me, and who is personally as like me as a waiting-woman is like her mistress?
Have we changed roles?
Have I the sense?
have you the fancy?
But a truce with jesting.
Your letter has made me know the elating pleasures of the soul; the first that I have known outside of my family affections.