And yet I still said to myself, if it is true that she does not love me, if nothing in me could deserve the blessing of her love, without which there is no longer any charm in life, is that a reason for dying? Do I exist for my own personal happiness? No, my whole existence is devoted to her, even in spite of her. And by what right should I have dared to aspire to her love? Am I then, more than an angel or a deity? I love her, true, even shouldn't I am ready to sacrifice everything gladly for her sake—everything, even the hope of being loved by her; there is no devotedness of which I am not capable for her, for one of her smiles, for one of her looks. But could I do otherwise? Is she not the sole aim of my life? That she may show indifference to me, even hate me, will be my misfortune, that is all. What does it matter, so that it does not injure her happiness? Yes, if she cannot love me I ought to blame myself only. My duty is to keep close to her steps, to surround her existence with mine, to serve her as a barrier against all dangers, to offer her my head as a stepping?stone, to place myself unceasingly between her and all sorrows, without claiming reward, without expecting recompense. Only too happy if she deigns some times to cast a pitying look upon her slave, and to remember him in the hour of danger! Alas! If she only allow me to give my life to anticipate her every desire, all her caprices; if she but permit me to kiss with respect her adored footprints; if she but consent to lean upon me at times ***dst the difficulties of life, then I shall have obtained the only happiness to which I have the presumption to asp