Besides, when you compare your respect and esteem with the free and almost indecent manner of the Chevalier; when you draw from it the conclusion that she should prefer you to him, you do not know how incorrectly you argue.  The Chevalier is nothing but a gallant, and what he says is not worth considering, or at least appears so.  Frivolity alone, the habit of romancing to all the pretty women he finds in his way, makes him talk.  Love counts for nothing, or at least for very little, in all his liaisons.  Like the butterfly, he hovers only a moment over each flower.  An amusing episode is his only object.  So much frivolity is not capable of alarming a woman.  She is delighted at the trifling danger she incurs in listening to such a man.

The Countess knows very well how to appreciate the discourse of the Chevalier; and to say everything in a word, she knows him to be a man whose heart is worn out.  Women, who, to hear them talk, go in more for metaphysics, know admirably how to tell the difference between a lover of his class and a man like you.  But you will always be more formidable and more to be dreaded by your manner of making yourself felt.

You boast to me of your respectful esteem, but I reply that it is nothing of the kind, and the Countess knows it well.  Nothing ends with so little respect as a passion like yours.  Quite different from the Chevalier, you require recognition, preference, acknowledgment, even sacrifices.  The Countess sees all these pretensions at a glance, or at least, if in the cloud which still envelops them, she does not distinguish them clearly, nature gives her a presentiment of what the cost will be if she allows you the least opportunity to instruct her in a passion which she doubtless already shares.  Women rarely inquire into the reasons which impel them to give themselves up or to resist; they do not even amuse themselves by trying to understand or explain them, but they have feelings, and sentiment with them is correct, it takes the place of intelligence and reflection.  It is a sort of instinct which warns them in case of danger, and which leads them aright perhaps as surely as does the most enlightened reason.  Your beautiful Adelaide wishes to enjoy an incognito as long as she can.  This plan is very congenial to her real interests, and yet I am fully persuaded that it is not the work of reflection.  She sees it only from the point of view of a passion, outwardly constrained, making stronger impressions and still greater progress inwardly.  Let it have an opportunity to take deep root, and give to this fire she tries to hide, time to consume the heart in which you wish to confine it.