I am as yet so poor a proficient in the art of writing, that it takes me up a deal of time only to put together a few lines; and often does it happen, my dear Aza, that after having written much, I cannot myself divine what I have endeavoured to express. I am perplexed, my ideas are confounded, and I forget what I had with difficulty revolved in my memory. I begin again, do no better, and yet I proceed.

The task would be easier to me, if I had nothing to say but express my own tenderness; the quickness of my feelings would then overcome all difficulties.

But that is not sufficient, I wish to give you an account of all that has passed during the long interval of my silence. I would make you acquainted with every thing I do; and yet, of so little importance are my actions, so uniform has my life for some time been, that one day seems to me just the same as another.

The principal event that has happened has been Deterville's departure. As long a time as they call here Six Months, he has been gone to fight for the interest of his sovereign. When he took his leave, I was unacquainted with his language; but by the grief he shewed at parting from his sister and me, I understood that we were going to lose him for a long time.

I shed many tears, a thousand fears filled my soul, lest the kindness of Celina should decrease. In him I lost the strongest hope I had of seeing you again. To whom could I have had recourse, if any new misfortunes had befallen me? nobody understood my language.

My fears were not ill-grounded; in a short time I felt the effects of his absence: Madame, his mother, whose contempt I had before but too much felt, and who had kept me so much with her only to indulge her vanity on account of my birth, and to shew her authority over me, ordered me to be shut up with Celina in a house of virgins, where we now are; and there is such a sameness in our manner of life, that it can produce nothing that can give any entertainment.