If you see me cry, my Sophie! Is it a shame for an unfortunate and sentimental being to shed tears?
Oh, that's the only sweetie that's left to me.
Because when I cry, some inexplicable but real lust mixes with my sadness.
Oh, my friend, what a feeling is love, since it can relieve such cruel suffering!
We thank her with the power to endure our pain, as we have thanked her for our ecstasies.
But the feeling of loss is as alive as that of pleasure and much more enduring.
Oh, I have lost all happiness of happy love.
Now I experience all the sufferings of the persecuted love ...
I dare not judge, but I cry and have not enough sigh for all my sufferings.
What courage would not be theirs, Lover? What force should I not show under such a burden?
Can a thought, a sensation, a feeling that does not increase its weight blossom in me?
Ordinary man finds that courage is not to fear death.
Should not you say that you are very happy? No,
but they only love each other and are always beside themselves.
You have a thousand wishes, a thousand passions and not a passion.
Oh, if they loved a single object that made all their hope, that united all their inclinations, all their desires!
If they then lost him, they would fear nothing more, they would brave terrible horrors.
The deliberation and the mind certainly suffice to belittle the value of life.
But the suffering of the heart leaves him no more. Oh, who would want to own it if he can no longer enjoy it!
Oh, Sophie, we need much more courage not to wish for death than to fear him.
Since the time, whose excessive duration is a true death, has devoured our joys, what else should we dispute,
if she is not to return them to us? Oh, I leave her without regret everything that is not meant for you.
Every day I become sadder, my friend, and I relentlessly pour on the paper the poison that soaks my heart.
You know that two lines, two lines from you, would heal me quickly.
And surely you have no less need to hear the complaints of your Gabriel than to receive your comfort.
My Sophie is no less emotional because she is less bubbly.
And I feel all that she suffers in these same moments of expectation and torment, where I sigh louder but not bitterly.
Who even knows whether the privilege of knowing everything that I do not know is not an agony for you, dear spouse?
At least I hope, and maybe you do not hope anymore.
Farewell, my Sophie Gabriel, whom I love, whom I adore infinitely more than I can say and she herself can believe it.
I send you millions of kisses, which you should accept and I ask you to stir you vigorously, but not so that it bothers his mom.
I love this child very much, but I do not want to be eager to ever rival my Sophie.
You do not want to tell me anything about your pregnancy?
Oh, if only I knew that she was happy, that you did not suffer much, that you are leaving much, that the poor little girl is getting worked up!
My dear friend, in my first letters I believe I have given you some useful advice about the behavior that you must observe in this regard.
The stormy pregnancy, whose witness and very attentive observer I have been, has taught me a lot.
Sophie, dress far enough for your child to lay down as desired. Eat healthy food so that he is well and you too.
Do not give yourself craving, satisfy your wishes to measure, so that it does not become weak, tasty yet moody.
And above all, go a lot, but do not strain too much, so that you facilitate your childbirth.
Oh, I want to watch over this important revolution because the health of women depends on their birth.
No foolishness, and certainly not rules of wise women, they are all wrong, ruinous and ominous.