Had I been young and amiable, and Madam d’ Houdetot, afterwards weak, I should here blame her conduct; but this was not the case, and I am obliged to applaud and admire it.  The resolution she took was equally prudent and generous.  She could not suddenly break with me without giving her reasons for it to Saint Lambert, who himself had desired her to come and see me; this would have exposed two friends to a rupture, and perhaps a public one, which she wished to avoid.  She had for me esteem and good wishes; she pitied my folly without encouraging it, and endeavored to restore me to reason.  She was glad to preserve to her lover and herself a friend for whom she had some respect; and she spoke of nothing with more pleasure than the intimate and agreeable society we might form between us three the moment I should become reasonable.  She did not always confine herself to these friendly exhortations, and, in case of need, did not spare me more severe reproaches, which I had richly deserved.

I spared myself still less:  the moment I was alone I began to recover; I was more calm after my declaration—­love, known to the person by whom it is inspired, becomes more supportable.

The forcible manner in which I approached myself with mine, ought to have cured me of it had the thing been possible.  What powerful motives did I not call to my mind to stifle it?  My morals, sentiments and principles; the shame, the treachery and crime, of abusing what was confided to friendship, and the ridiculousness of burning, at my age, with the most extravagant passion for an object whose heart was preengaged, and who could neither make me a return, nor least hope; moreover with a passion which, far from having anything to gain by constancy, daily became less sufferable.

We would imagine that the last consideration which ought to have added weight to all the others, was that whereby I eluded them!  What scruple, thought I, ought I to make of a folly prejudicial to nobody but myself?  Am I then a young man of whom Madam d’Houdetot ought to be afraid?  Would not it be said by my presumptive remorse that, by my gallantry, manner and dress, I was going to seduce her?  Poor Jean Jacques, love on at thy ease, in all safety of conscience, and be not afraid that thy sighs will be prejudicial to Saint Lambert.

It has been seen that I never was a coxcomb, not even in my youth.  The manner of thinking, of which I have spoken, was according to my turn of mind, it flattered my passions; this, was sufficient to induce me to abandon myself to it without reserve, and to laugh even at the impertinent scruple I thought I had made from vanity, rather than from reason.  This is a great lesson for virtuous minds, which vice never attacks openly; it finds means to surprise them by masking itself with sophisms, and not unfrequently with a virtue.