The Marquise sailed, then, on the open sea, with all sail set; whilst my
little barque did little more than tack about near the shore. One day I
received the following letter; it was in a pleasant and careful
handwriting, and orthography was observed with complete regularity, which
suggested that a man had been its writer, or its editor:

The person who writes these lines, Madame la Marquise, sees you but
rarely, but is none the less attached to you. The advice which he is
going to give you in writing he would have made it a duty to come and
give you himself; he has been deterred by the fear either of appearing to
you indiscreet, or of finding you too deeply engrossed with occupations,
or with visitors, as is so often the case, in your own apartments.

These visitors, this former affluence of greedy and interested hearts,
you will soon see revealed and diminishing; probably your eyes, which are
so alert, have already remarked this diminution. The monarch no longer
loves you; coolness and inconstancy are maladies of the human heart. In
the midst of the most splendid health, our King has for some time past
experienced this malady.

In your place, I should not wait to see myself repudiated. By whatever
outward respect such an injunction be accompanied, the bottom of the cup
is always the same, and the honey at the edge is but a weak palliative.
Being no ordinary woman by birth, do not terminate like an ordinary
actress your splendid and magnificent role on this great stage. Know how
to leave before the audience is weary; while they can say, when they miss
you from the scene, "She was still fine in her role. It is a pity!"

Since a new taste or new caprice of the monarch has led his affections