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It is not my mind that speaks
to you of this, it is hers. I have no mind with which to reason
when I think of you; blood gushes from my heart, and its hot wave
darkens my intellect, weakens my strength, paralyzes my tongue,
and bends my knees. I can only adore you, whatever you may do to
me.
Camille calls your resolution obstinacy; I defend you, and I call
it virtue. You are only the more beautiful because of it. I know
my destiny, and the pride of a Breton can rise to the height of
the woman who makes her pride a virtue.
Therefore, dear Beatrix, be kind, be consoling to me. When victims
were selected, they crowned them with flowers; so do you to me;
you owe me the flowers of pity, the music of my sacrifice. Am I
not a proof of your grandeur? Will you not rise to the level of my
disdained love,--disdained in spite of its sincerity, in spite of
its immortal passion?
Ask Camille how I behaved to her after the day she told me, on her
return to Les Touches, that she loved Claude Vignon. I was mute; I
suffered in silence.


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