cause of something worse; I feel a great desire to laugh at them. Oh,
I enter into your troubles seriously enough, I can not do more, and
your embarrassment appears great to me. Really, why risk a declaration
of love to a woman who takes a wicked pleasure in avoiding it on every
occasion? Now, she appears affected, and then again, she is the most
unmindful woman in the world in spite of all you do to please her. She
listens willingly and replies gaily to the gallant speeches and bold
conversation of a certain Chevalier, a professional coxcomb, but to
you she speaks seriously and with a preoccupied air. If you take on a
tender and affectionate tone, she replies flippantly, or perhaps
changes the subject. All this intimidates you, troubles you, and
drives you to despair. Poor Marquis!--and I answer you, that all this
is love, true and beautiful. The absence of mind which she affects
with you, the nonchalance she puts on for a mask, ought to make you
feel at heart that she is far from being indifferent. But your lack of
boldness, the consequences which she feels must follow such a passion
as yours, the interest which she already takes in your condition, all
this intimidates the countess herself, and it is you who raise
obstacles in her path. A little more boldness on your part would put
you both at your ease. Do you remember what M. de la Rochefoucauld
told you lately: "A reasonable man in love may act like a madman, but
he should not and can not act like an idiot."

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