You see that through myself I would have been restored to my rank.  M. de Meilhan wished to marry me without fortune or name....  Yesterday, M. de Villiers knew not who I was; my uncle’s inheritance has therefore been of no assistance to me.  I believe that native dignity will always imperceptibly assert itself.  I believe in the logic of events; order has imperious laws; it is useless to throw statues to the ground, the time always comes when they are restored to their pedestals.  From my rank I fell unjustly, unhappily.  I must be restored to it justly.  Every glaring injustice has a natural consequent, a brilliant reparation, I have suffered extraordinary misfortune; I have a right to realize ideal happiness.  At twenty, I lost in one year my noble and too generous father and my poor mother; it is only just that I should have a lover to replace these lost ones.

As to these violent passions which you pretend I have inspired, but which are by no means serious, I examine them calmly and find in the analysis an explanation of many of the misfortunes, many of the mistakes of poor women, who are accused of inconstancy and perfidy, and who are, on the contrary, only culpable through innocence and honest faith.  They believe they love, and engage themselves, and then, once engaged, they discover that they are not in love.  Genuine love is composed of two sentiments; we experience one of these when we believe we love; we are uneasy, agitated by an imperfect sentiment that seeks completion; we struggle in its feeble ties; we are neither bound nor free; not happy, nor at liberty to seek happiness at another source....  The old philosopher speaks—­hear him.

There are two kinds of love, social love and natural love; voluntary love and involuntary love.  An accomplished and deserving young man loves a woman; he loves her, and deserves to be loved in return; she wishes to love him, and when alone thinks of him; if his name is mentioned, she blushes; if any one says in her presence, “Madame B. used to be in love with him,” she is disturbed, agitated.  These symptoms are certain proofs of the state of her heart, and she says to herself, “I love Adolphe,” just as I said, “I love Roger.” ...  But the voice of this man does not move her to tears; his fiery glances do not make her turn pale or blush; her hand does not tremble in the presence of his....  She only feels for him social love; there exists between them a harmony of ideas and education, but no sympathy of nature.

The other love is more dangerous, especially for married women, who mistake remorse for that honest repugnance necessarily inspired in every woman of refined mind and romantic imagination.