Friendship is a sentiment which has nothing to do with the senses; the soul alone receives the impression of it, and the soul loses nothing of its value by giving itself up to several at the same time.  Compare friendship with love, and you will perceive the difference between a desire which governs a friend, and that which offers itself to a lover.  You will confess, that at heart, I am not so unreasonable as you at first thought, and that it might be very well if it should happen that in love, you might have a soul as worldly as that of a good many people, whom it pleases you to accuse of very little refinement.

I do not wish, however, to bring men alone to trial.  I am frank, and I am quite sure that if women would be honest, they would soon confess that they are not a bit more refined than men.  Indeed, if they saw in love only the pleasures of the soul, if they hoped to please only by their mental accomplishments and their good character, honestly, now, would they apply themselves with such particular care to please by the charms of their person?  What is a beautiful skin to the soul; an elegant figure; a well shaped arm?  What contradictions between their real sentiments and those they exhibit on parade!  Look at them, and you will be convinced that they have no intention of making themselves valued except by their sensual attractions, and that they count everything else as nothing.  Listen to them:  you will be tempted to believe that it is not worldly things which they consider the least.  I think I deserve credit for trying to dispel your error in this respect, and ought I not to expect everything from the care they will take to undeceive you themselves?  Perhaps they will succeed only too easily in expressing sentiments entirely contrary to those you have heard to-day from me.

I am due at Mademoiselle de Raymond’s this evening, to hear the two Camus and Ytier who are going to sing.  Mesdames de la Sabliere, de Salins, and de Monsoreau will also be there.  Would you miss such a fine company?

XII

A Man in Love is an Amusing Spectacle

You take things too much to heart, Marquis.  Already two nights that you have not slept.  Oh! it is true love, there is no mistaking that.  You have made your eyes speak, you, yourself, have spoken quite plainly, and not the slightest notice has been taken of your condition.  Such behavior calls for revenge.  Is it possible that after eight whole days of devoted attention she has not given you the least hope?  Such a thing can not be easily imagined.  Such a long resistance begins to pass beyond probability.  The Countess is a heroine of the last century.  But if you are beginning to lose patience, you can imagine the length of time you would have had to suffer, if you had continued to proclaim grand and noble sentiments.  You have already accomplished more in eight days than the late Celadon could in eight months.  However, to speak seriously, are your complaints just?  You call the Countess ungrateful, insensible, disdainful, etc.  But by what right do you talk thus?  Will you never believe what I have told you a hundred times?  Love is a veritable caprice, involuntary, even in one who experiences its pangs.  Why should, you say that the beloved object is bound to recompense a blind sentiment acquired without her connivance?