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?

You are very queer, you men. You consider yourselves offended because
a woman does not respond with eagerness to the languishing looks you
deign to cast upon her. Your revolted pride immediately accuses her of
injustice, as if it were her fault that your head is turned; as if she
were obliged, at a certain stage, to be seized with the same disease
as you. Tell me this: is the Countess responsible if she is not
afflicted with the same delirium as soon as you begin to rave? Cease,
then, to accuse her and to complain, and to try to communicate your
malady to her; I know you, you are seductive enough. Perhaps she will
feel, too soon for her peace of mind, sentiments commensurate with
your desires. I believe she has in her everything to subjugate you,
and to inspire you with the taste I hope will be for your happiness,
but so far, I do not think she is susceptible of a very serious
attachment.

Vivacious, inconsistent, positive, decided, she can not fail to give
you plenty of exercise. An attentive and caressing woman would weary
you; you must be handled in a military fashion, if you are to be
amused and retained. As soon as the mistress assumes the rôle of
lover, love begins to weaken; it does more, it rises like a tyrant,
and ends in disdain which leads directly to disgust and inconstancy.
Have you found, perchance, everything you required in the little
mistress who is the cause of your dolorous martyrdom? Poor Marquis!