O— now calls upon me regularly to ensure my well-being. Ma chère fille, it is to you that I owe this, for he has confided to me that it was you who altered his mind upon the matter. Although I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to disabuse him of his political convictions, I have been able to persuade him to restore my annuity and safeguard those assets which I possess in France, through the means of his banker in London. I cannot express to you the reassurance such a gesture confers upon me, and for this, my dear child, I am truly obliged to you. Now it only remains for me to offer you my most ardent prayers for your swift return to health and bid you not to neglect your correspondence with one who signs herself ever as your chère maman,

G.E.

What joy her lines inspired in me! How grateful was I to learn that all of my sacrifices, my efforts and suffering had not been in vain. To consider that I had been the author of my friend’s turn of fortune inspired in me the greatest happiness I had known since arriving in Paris. I pressed the letter to my breast, wishing I might embrace Mrs Elliot in its place. However, as I did so, I was not so ignorant of those other sentiments rising within me. I felt myself to some degree discharged of my obligation and, as I had come to discover, there is nothing which so taxes the spirit as a sense of indebtedness to a friend.

There were further letters which I then proceeded to open. Each of them had been written as the last, containing a scribble from Thérèse on some household matter or other: a wax chandler’s bill or Madame Vernet’s toothache. Below that the sheet was blank. I held each to a candle and was as delighted as a child to observe the words bake brown upon it. She wrote:

Ma chère fille, my heart grows despondent at your silence. O— has sent me word of your improving health and I yearn to receive a note from you and learn of your news. I have quit Paris and am at my house in Meudon. I can only suppose my last letter or yours has gone astray.

And then in another: