est."

You should blush to deserve the least reproach from the Countess. What
sort of a woman is it you seem to prefer to her? A woman without
delicacy and without love; a woman who is guided only by the
attractions of pleasure; more vain than sensible; more voluptuous than
tender; more passionate than affectionate, she seeks, she cherishes in
you nothing but your youth and all the advantages that accompany it.

You know what her rival is worth; you know all your wrong doing with
her; you agree that you are a monster of ingratitude, yet, you are
unwilling to take it upon yourself to merit her pardon. Truly,
Marquis, I do not understand you. I am beginning to believe that
Madame de Sevigne was right when she said that her son knew his duty
very well, and could reason like a philosopher on the subject, but
that he was carried away by his passions, so that "he is not a head
fool, but a heart fool" (ce n'est pas par la tete qu'il est fou, mais
par le coeur).

You recall in vain what I said to you long ago about making love in a
free and easy manner. You will remember that I was then enjoying
myself with some jocular reflections which were not intended to be
formal advice. Do not forget, either, that the question then was about
a mere passing fancy, and not of an ordinary mistress. But the case
to-day is very different, you can not find among all the women of
Paris, a single one who can be compared with her you are so cruelly
abandoning. And for what reason? Because her resistance wounds your
vanity. What resource is left us to hold you?

I agree with you, nevertheless, that when a passion is extinguished it
can not be relighted without difficulty. No one is more the master of
loving than he is of not loving. I feel the truth of all these maxims;
I do homage to them with regret, as soon as, with a knowledge of the
cause, I consider that you reject what is excellent and accept the
worse; you renounce a solid happiness, durable pleasures, and yield to
depraved tastes and pure caprices; but I can see that all my
reflections will not reform you. I am beginning to fear that I am
wearying you with morals, and to tell you the truth, it is very
ridiculous in me to preach constancy when it is certain that you do
not love, and that you are a heart fool.

I therefore abandon you to your destiny, without, however, giving up
my desire to follow you into new follies. Why: should I be afflicted?
Would it be of any moment to assume wi