ts of your
heart. You are thought indifferent; you seem to me
insensible. Perhaps you are happy, and discreet in your
happiness. Deign to tell me the secret of your soul, and be
sure that I am not unworthy of your confidence. If you have
no love for any one, wear this scarf at the ball. Your
compliance may lead you to a fate which others envy. She who
feels inclined to prefer you is worthy of your attentions,
and the step she takes to let you know it is the first
weakness which she has to confess.

The modesty of this perhaps leaves something to desire, but its
Sensibility is irreproachable. There is no need to analyse the story of
the _Marquis de Cressy_, which is a very little book[409] and not
extremely edifying. But it supplies us with another _locus classicus_ on
sentimental manners. M. de Cressy has behaved very badly to Adelaide,
and has married the widow with the scarf. He receives a letter from
Adelaide on the day on which she takes the black veil--

'Tis from the depths of an asylum, where I fear no more the
perfidy of your sex, that I bid you an eternal adieu. Birth,
wealth, honours, all vanish from my sight. My youth withered
by grief, my power of enjoyment destroyed, love past, memory
present, and regret still too deeply felt, all combine to
bury me in this retreat.

And so forth, all of which, if a little high-flown, is not specially
unnatural; but the oddity of the passage is to come. Most men would be a
little embarrassed at receiving such a letter as this in presence of
their wives (it is to be observed that the unhappy Adelaide is profuse
of pardons to Madame as well as to Monsieur de Cressy), and most wives
would not be pleased when they read it. But Madame de Cressy has the
finest Sensibility of the amiable kind. She reads it, and then--

The Marquise, having finished this letter, cast herself into
the arms of her husband, and clasping him with an
inexpressible tenderness, "Weep, sir, weep," she cried,
bathing him with her own tears; "you cannot show too much
sensibility for a heart so noble, so constant in its love.
Amiable and dear Adelaide! 'Tis done, then, and we have lost
you for ever. Ah! why must I reproach myself with having
deprived you of the only possession which excited your
desires? Can I not enjoy this sweet boon without telling
myself that my happiness has