dissatisfaction with her for refusing to make the confession you
desired. The words: "I love you" seem to be something precious in your
estimation. For fifteen days you have been trying to penetrate the
sentiments of the Countess, and you have succeeded; you know her
affection for you. What more can you possibly want? What further right
over her heart would a confession give you? Truly, I consider you a
strange character. You ought to know that nothing is more calculated
to cause a reasonable woman to revolt, than the obstinacy with which
ordinary men insist upon a declaration of their love. I fail to
understand you. Ought not her refusal to be a thousand times more
precious to a delicate minded lover than a positive declaration? Will
you ever know your real interests? Instead of persecuting a woman on
such a point, expend your energies in concealing from her the extent
of her affection. Act so that she will love you before you call her
attention to the fact, before compelling her to resort to the
necessity of proclaiming it. Is it possible to experience a situation
more delicious than that of seeing a heart interested in you without
suspicion, growing toward you by degrees, finally becoming
affectionate? What a pleasure to enjoy secretly all her movements, to
direct her sentiments, augment them, hasten them, and glory in the
victory even before she has suspected that you have essayed her
defeat! That is what I call pleasure.

Believe me, Marquis, your conduct toward the Countess must be as if
the open avowal of her love for you had escaped her. Of a truth, she
has not said in words: "I love you," but it is because she really
loves you that she has refrained from saying it. Otherwise she has
done everything to convince you of it.

Women are under no ordinary embarrassment. They desire for the very