For several weeks I kept my bed and room, a fever having been produced by the sufferings from my wound. Young M. de Sonnes never left me; he had all my property removed from Bertollon’s house; including the harp, but not the wreath. They did not know of what value it was to me.
In the meanwhile Madame Bertollon had been acquitted; and M. de Sonnes told me that the fair sufferer had immediately left Montpellier, and had gone into a distant convent. He likewise gave me a letter which had been sent for me, under cover, to Madame de Sonnes, saying, “Madame Bertollon probably wished us to thank her deliverer.”
I took it with a trembling hand; as soon as I was alone I perused it, and ever since it has accompanied me in weal and woe. Its contents are as follows:—
“Abbey St. G., at V——,
“May 11, 1762.
“Farewell, Alamontade, these lines, the first I ever wrote to a man, will be the last. I have left the stormy life of the great world; the solemn stillness of sacred walls encloses me; I have been able to disengage myself, without regret, from all that once was dear and indispensable; I take nothing out of the world except the wounds which it inflicted.
“Ah! that I could have left these wounds, and the remembrance of the past behind me. They cling to me to make my last friend, Death, the more desirable.
“In the bloom of life the black veil of widowhood encircles me; by it I show to men a mourning which I feel not, and conceal that which consumes me.
“Yes, Alamontade, I do not blush even now, in this sacred spot, to confess what I never wished to conceal from you, that I loved you. You knew it. Alas! you still know it; and it was you who could point the dagger to a heart which beat for you alone in this world.
“Oh! Alamontade, you have deceived me. You never loved me. I was not grieved at my unfortunate husband accusing me of the blackest crime. No. But that you could believe me guilty, could become my accuser; you, for whom I would cheerfully have died,—that has withered the very root of my life.
“But no; no reproaches. Noble, and still beloved, you were blameless. Dazzled by appearances, you sacrificed feeling to friendship and your sense of justice. You wished, at most, to be unhappy, not ungrateful. I feel it fully; the wife of another dared not love you; and I, in my sinful affection, was never worthy of your pure heart. I always felt this, and my weakness was always at war with my inclination. No being was more wretched than I; and each look from you, each kiss perpetuated a flame which it ought to have extinguished. In a moment of despair I wished for a voluntary death rather than the danger of losing my virtue. Then I procured the poison which I had destined for myself, because I loved you much too passionately. This is the secret which shame would have prevented me from confessing upon the rack. Alas! You, the source of my misfortune—it was you that interrogated me before the judges.