[A gap in the correspondence. Two years later Coste writes the following letters.]
TO MADEMOISELLE SUSON
... Last century, you were infatuated with wit, you say, and you thought yourself bound to write in a sublime style. Don't tell me that, Mademoiselle. I know you too well to believe that of you. I know that last century your mind had depth and strength and you were strong-minded; you wrote well, knowing what tone to assume and never departing from it. If that be a fault, you are not rid of it at the beginning of this century....
As for me, I fancy that a charming shepherdess who, after talking to her shepherd about rain and fair weather, suddenly said without regard to connection in subjects: "Oh, dear Tirtis, how I love thee!" would persuade him far better than a more witty shepherdess who, coming more skilfully to the point, said: "See the lamb yonder, how pretty it is, how charmingly it frisks about the grass, it is my pet, I love it much, but, dear Tirtis, less than thee!" That is more witty but not so moving, if I am to believe those skilled in the matter....
"Yes, in my heart your portrait is engraved
So deeply that, had I no eyes,
Yet I should never lose the idea
Of the charming features that Heaven bestowed on thee."
X
TO MADEMOISELLE SUSON BRUN
[The last letter has caused him much disquiet. Suson has fallen ill of "languor and melancholy".]
A peace-loving creature has brought you back to health; and you think yourself thereby protected against all the malicious reflections of our friend. Asses' milk may cool the blood, enliven the complexion and restore the healthful look that you had lost,
"But its effect reaches not unto the heart."