Page:Letters of Mlle. de Lespinasse.djvu/29

14 fact, that order and attention were not among the number of M. de Guibert's good qualities ; he takes no care of his friend's letters : he mingles them with his other papers, he drops them from his pocket by mistake, while at the same time he forgets to seal his own. Sometimes he returns them to her, but among the number returned some are not hers ! In that we see M. de Guibert undisguised. Nevertheless, I do not know why he should be held responsible and guilty to-day for the pleasure we derive from these Letters. He doubtless returned many, and many were destroyed. But Mile, de Lespinasse wrote many. It is but a handful, preserved by chance, which have come to us. What matter ? the thread of the story is there, and it suffices. Throughout, they are almost one and the same letter, ever novel, ever unexpected, beginning afresh.

Amid their anguish, their plaints, one word, the divine eternal word, returns again and again and redeems all. Here is one of her letters in two lines which says more than many words : — "From every instant of my life, 1774. "Mon ami, — I suffer, I love you, I await you."

It is very rare in France to meet (pushed to this degree) with the class of passion and " sacred ill " of which Mile, de Lespinasse was the victim. This is not a reproach that I make — God forbid ! — to the amiable women of our nation; it is a simple remark, which others have made before me. A moralist of the eighteenth century who knew his times, M. de Meilhan, has said, " In France, great passions are as rare as great men." M. de Mora declared that even the Spanish women could not enter into comparison with his friend. " Oh ! they are not worthy to be your pupils," he tells her constantly ; " your soul was warmed by the sun of Lima, but