least, as much to confess their affection as you are anxious to
ascertain it, but what do you expect, Marquis? Women ingenious at
raising obstacles, have attached a certain shame to any avowal of
their passion, and whatever idea you men may have formed of our way of
thinking, such an avowal always humiliates us, for however small may
be our experience, we comprehend all the consequences. The words "I
love you" are not criminal, that is true, but their sequel frightens
us, hence we find means to dissimulate, and close our eyes to the
liabilities they carry with them.

Besides this, be on your guard; your persistence in requiring an open
avowal from the Countess, is less the work of love than a persevering
vanity. I defy you to find a mistake in the true motives behind your
insistence. Nature has given woman a wonderful instinct; it enables
her to discern without mistake whatever grows out of a passion in one
who is a stranger to her. Always indulgent toward the effects produced
by a love we have inspired, we will pardon you many imprudences, many
transports; how can I enumerate them all? All the follies of which you
lovers are capable, we pardon, but you will always find us intractable
when our self-esteem meets your own. Who would believe it? You inspire
us to revolt at things that have nothing to do with your happiness.
Your vanity sticks at trifles, and prevents you from enjoying actual
advantages. Will you believe me when I say it? You will drop your idle
fancies, to delight in the certainty that you are beloved by an
adorable woman; to taste the pleasure of hiding the extent of her love
from herself, to rejoice in its security. Suppose by force of
importunities you should extract an "I love you," what would you gain
by it? Would your uncertainty reach an end? Would you know whether you
owe the avowal to love or complaisance? I think I know women, I ought
to. They can deceive you by a studied confession which the lips only