That evening I saw you climb a hill, in order to gather some flowers; the hill was steep and you could not reach the flowers.

I gathered them for you, and, in sending my bouquet, I could not resist the temptation of adding a word.

'Before doing penance,' I said to myself, 'let me commit this one folly; it shall be the last.' We always flatter ourselves that each folly will be our last.

The unfortunate note had scarcely gone, when I regretted having sent it; I would have given much to have had it back; I felt all its impropriety; I have dealt justly by it in tearing it to pieces.

My only excuse was my firm resolution not to meet you, not to make your acquaintance.