I shall not see you, for I am quite near death, and you are hundreds of leagues away.

My poor friend! your Marguerite of old times is sadly changed.

It is better perhaps for you not to see her again than to see her as she is.

You ask if I forgive you; oh, with all my heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a way of proving the love you had for me.

I have been in bed for a month, and I think so much of your esteem that I write every day the journal of my life, from the moment we left each other to the moment when I shall be able to write no longer.