ity, will no longer permit you to give place to a friend
who will have become a rival. Passion has not yet taken deep root in
your heart; at present it is nothing more than a fancy, a transitory
preference, a pleasant employment of your idle moments.

In the country, every young woman is more or less disposed to break the
hearts of young men, like you, who gravitate like satellites. Women
delight in this play--but like many other tragic plays, it commences
with smiles but terminates in tears and blood! Moreover, my young
friend, in withdrawing seasonably, you are not only wise, you are
generous!

I know that Edgar has been for a long time deeply in love with this
woman; you are merely indulging in a rural flirtation, a momentary
caprice. In a little while, vain rivalry will make you blind, embitter
your disposition, and deceive you as to the nature of your
sentiments--believing yourself seriously in love you will be unable to
withdraw. To-day your pride is not interested; wait not until to-morrow.
Edgar is your friend, you must respect his prerogatives. A woman gave
you a wise example to follow--she suddenly withdrew from the presence of
you both when she saw a threatening danger.

A pretty woman is always dangerous when she comes to inaugurate the
divinity of her charms in a lonely chateau, in the presence of two
inflammable young men. I detect the cunning of the fair unknown: she
lavishes innocent smiles upon both of you--she equally divides her
coquetries between you; she approaches you to dazzle--she leaves you to
make herself regretted; she entangles you in the illusion of her
brilliant fascination; she moves to seduce your senses; she speaks to
charm your soul; she sings to destroy your reason.

Forget yourself for one instant, my young friend, on this flowery slope,
and woe betide you when you reach the bottom! Be intoxicated by this
feast of sweet words, soft perfumes and radiant smiles, then send me a
report of your soul's condition when you recover your senses! At
present, in spite of your skirmishes of wit, you are still the friend of
Edgar ... hostility will certainly come. Friendship is too feeble a
sentiment to struggle against love. This passion is more violent than
tropical storms--I have felt it--I am one of its victims now! There
lives another woman--half siren, half Circe--who has crossed my path in
life, as you well know. If I had collected in my house as many friends
as Socrates desired to see i