You were very pious. In that period, you and I still believed in God—that is, the God that people depict for us as if they knew Him. And yet you never spoke of Him. Perhaps you thought there was nothing one could say, or else you never spoke of Him because you felt that He was present. One speaks of those one loves especially when they are not there. You lived in God. Like me, you were fond of those old books of the mystics, who seem to have looked into life and death through a crystal. We lent each other books. We read together, but not aloud, aware that words often destroy something. We had two harmonious silences. We waited for each other at the bottom of the page; your finger traced the beginnings of prayers across the lines as if you were showing me a route. One day when I had more courage and you even more tenderness than usual, I admitted to you my fear of being damned. You smiled, gravely, to give me confidence. Suddenly this idea seemed small, mean, and terribly remote: I understood that day the indulgence of God.

Thus, I do have memories of love. No doubt it was not a true passion, but I am not sure whether a true passion would have made me better or only happier. Nevertheless, I see too clearly how much egotism such an emotion contains. I attached myself to you. I attached myself: that, unhappily, is the only appropriate word. Weeks went by; every day the princess found reasons to keep you there longer; I think you began to become accustomed to me. We came to exchange our memories of childhood. Thanks to you, I was aware of happy ones. Through me, you were aware of sad ones. It was as if we had divided our pasts in half. Every hour increased this shy fraternal intimacy, and I realized with horror that we had come to be thought of as fiancés.

I unburdened myself to Princess Catherine. I could not tell her everything: I emphasized the extreme poverty against which my family struggled; you were, unhappily, far too rich for me. Your name alone, celebrated for two generations in the world of learning, was worth more than an impoverished Austrian nobility. Finally, I was bold enough to allude to earlier faults of a serious nature which forbade me your love but which naturally I could not be explicit about. This half confession, painful enough in itself, succeeded only in causing a smile. Monique, I was not even believed. I was colliding with the obstinacy of frivolous people. The princess had once and for all promised herself to unite us in marriage: she had formed a favorable opinion of me which she would not change. The world, which is sometimes too stern, compensates for its harshness with its inattention. Quite simply, one is never suspected. The Princess de Mainau said that experience had made her frivolous: neither she nor her husband took me seriously. My scruples seemed to them to bear witness to a true love; because I was apprehensive, they thought I was being unselfish.