truth. You are flattered by the
love of a woman, because you believe it implies the worthiness of the
object loved. You do her too much honor: let us say rather, that you
have too good an opinion of yourself. Understand that it is not for
yourself that we love you, to speak with sincerity, it is our own
happiness we seek. Caprice, interest, vanity, disposition, the
uneasiness that affects our hearts when they are unoccupied, these are
the sources of the great sentiment we wish to deify! It is not great
qualities that affect us; if they enter for anything into the reasons
which determine us in your favor, it is not the heart which receives
the impression, it is vanity; and the greater part of the things in
you which please us, very often makes you ridiculous or contemptible.

But, what will you have? We need an admirer who can entertain us with
ideas of our perfections; we need an obliging person who will submit
to our caprices; we need a man! Chance presents us with one rather
than another; we accept him, but we do not choose him. In a word, you
believe yourselves to be the objects of our disinterested affection. I
repeat: You think women love you for yourselves. Poor dupes! You are
only the instruments of their pleasures, the sport of their caprices.
I must, however, do women justice; it is not that you are what I have
just enumerated with their consent, for the sentiments which I develop
here are not well defined in their minds, on the contrary, with the
best faith in the world, women imagine themselves influenced and
actuated only by the grand ideas which your vanity and theirs has
nourished. It would be a crying injustice to accuse them of deceit in
this respect; but, without being aware of it, they deceive themselves,
and you are equally deceived.

You see that I am revealing the secrets of the good goddess. Judge of
my friendship, since, at the expense of my own sex, I labor to
enlighten you. The better you know women, the fewer follies they will
lead you to commit.

XV

The Hidden Motives of Love

Really, Marquis, I do not understand how you can meekly submit to the
serious language I sometimes write you. It seems as if I had no other
aim in my letters than to sweep away your agreeable illusions and
substitute mortifying truths. I must, however, get rid of my mania for
saying deeply considered things. I know better than any one else that
pleasant lies are more agreeable than the most reasonable
co