I doubt if there is one who would not stay virtuous ten years to obtain one half of the favors you did not know how to value!  When a man is loved like that how can he ask more?  Poor woman! she suffered indeed; and after you have written a few sentimental phrases you think you have balanced your account with her coffin.  Such, no doubt, is the end that awaits my tenderness for you.  Thank you, dear count, I will have no rival on either side of the grave.  When a man has such a crime upon his conscience, at least he ought not to tell of it.  I made you an imprudent request; but I was true to my woman’s part as a daughter of Eve,—­it was your part to estimate the effect of the answer.  You ought to have deceived me; later I should have thanked you.  Is it possible that you have never understood the special virtue of lovers?  Can you not feel how generous they are in swearing that they have never loved before, and love at last for the first time?

No, your programme cannot be carried out.  To attempt to be both Madame de Mortsauf and Lady Dudley,—­why, my dear friend, it would be trying to unite fire and water within me!  Is it possible that you don’t know women?  Believe me, they are what they are, and they have therefore the defects of their virtues.  You met Lady Dudley too early in life to appreciate her, and the harm you say of her seems to me the revenge of your wounded vanity.  You understood Madame de Mortsauf too late; you punished one for not being the other,—­what would happen to me if I were neither the one nor the other?  I love you enough to have thought deeply about your future; in fact, I really care for you a great deal.  Your air of the Knight of the Sad Countenance has always deeply interested me; I believed in the constancy of melancholy men; but I little thought that you had killed the loveliest and the most virtuous of women at the opening of your life.

Well, I ask myself, what remains for you to do?  I have thought it over carefully.  I think, my friend, that you will have to marry a Mrs. Shandy, who will know nothing of love or of passion, and will not trouble herself about Madame de Mortsauf or Lady Dudley; who will be wholly indifferent to those moments of ennui which you call melancholy, during which you are as lively as a rainy day,—­a wife who will be to you, in short, the excellent sister of charity whom you are seeking.  But as for loving, quivering at a word, anticipating happiness, giving it, receiving it, experiencing all the tempests of passion, cherishing the little weaknesses of a beloved woman—­my dear count, renounce it all!  You have followed the advice of your good angel about young women too closely; you have avoided them so carefully that now you know nothing about them.  Madame de Mortsauf was right to place you high in life at the start; otherwise all women would have been against you, and you never would have risen in society.

It is too late now to begin your training