The king has sent an express for
him, with an order to return as soon as possible. He will leave in one
half hour, and I do not know when we can meet again. Ah! how soon
happiness passes away!...
Sunday, _June 7th._
It is now two weeks since the prince royal left me; he has sent two
expresses, and slipped two notes for me under cover to the prince
palatine. But what is a letter?... An unfinished thought--it soothes for
a moment, but cannot calm. A letter can never replace even a few seconds
of personal intercourse; he has left me his portrait; I am sure every
one would think it like him; but for me, it is merely a shred of
inanimate canvas. It has his features, but it is not he, and has not his
expression.... I have him much better in my memory.
All consolation is denied me, for I will not reply to his letters; this
restraint I have imposed upon myself; I am sure that my hand would
become motionless as the cold marble were I to write to the man I love
without the knowledge of my aunt, my elder sister, and my parents. I
told the prince royal that he could never have a letter from me until I
was his wife. This is a great sacrifice, but I have promised my God that
I will accomplish it.
Since his departure, time weighs upon me as a continued torture. During
the first few days I wandered about as if bereft of reason; I could not
fix my thoughts, or apply myself to any occupation.
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