"What can she be writing to me about?" I said to myself. "Why does she
write at all? I do not want her pity, still less her gratitude."
I felt tempted to throw this fateful little note into the sea. Once,
indeed I held it out over the waves, but I immediately pressed it to
my bosom, and kept it hidden there a few moments as if I had been a
believer in that second sight preached by the advocates of magnetism,
who assert that they can read with the organs of feeling and thought as
well as with their eyes.
At last I resolved to break the seal. The words I read were these:
"You have done well, Bernard; but I give you no thanks, as your absence
will cause me more suffering than I can tell. Still, go wherever honour
and love of truth call you; you will always be followed by my good
wishes and prayers. Return when your mission is accomplished; you will
find me neither married nor in a convent."
In this note she had inclosed the cornelian ring she had given me during
my illness and which I had returned on leaving Paris. I had a little
gold box made to hold this ring and note, and I wore it near my heart as
a talisman. Lafayette, who had been arrested in France by order of the
Government, which was opposed to his expedition, soon came and joined us
after escaping from prison. I had had time to make my preparations, and
I sailed full of melancholy, ambition, and hope.
You will not expect me to give an account of the American war.
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