and
pay his debts. My son visits his wife every day, and when she is in good
humour he stays with her a long time; but when she is ill-tempered,
which, unfortunately, happens too often, he goes away without saying
anything. I have every reason to be satisfied with him; he lives on very
good terms with me, and I have no right to complain of his conduct; but I
see that he does not repose much confidence in me, and I know many
persons to whom he is more communicative.

I love my son with all my heart; but I cannot see how any one else can,
for his manners are little calculated to inspire love. In the first
place, he is incapable of the passion, or of being attached to any one
for a long time; in the second, he is not sufficiently polished and
gallant to make love, but sets about it rudely and coarsely; in the
third, he is very indiscreet, and tells plainly all that he has done.

I have said to him a hundred times, "I wonder how any woman can run after
you, whom they ought rather to fly from."

He would reply, laughing, "Ah! you do not know the libertine women of the
present day; provided they are talked of, they are satisfied."

There was an affair of gallantry, but a perfectly honourable one, between
him and the Queen of Spain. I do not know whether he had the good
fortune to be agreeable to her, but I know he was not at all in love with
her. He thought her mien and figure good, but neither her manners nor
her face were agreeable to him.

He was not in any degree romantic, and, not knowing how to conduct
himself in this affair, he said to the Duc de Grammont, "You understand
the manner of Spanish gallantry; pray tell me a little what I ought to
say and do."

He could not, however, suit the fancy of the Queen, who was for pure
gallantry; those who were less delicate he was better suited for, and for
this reason it was said that libertine women used to run after him.

...............................

He never denied that he was indiscreet and inconstant. Being one day
with me at the theatre, and hearing Valere say he was tired of his
mistress, "That has been my case often," he cried. I told him he never
was in love in his life, and that what he called love was mere
debauchery.

He replied, "It is very true that I am not a hero of romance, and that I
do not make love like a Celadon, but I love in my way."

"Your way," I said, "is an extremely gross one." . . . This made him
laugh.

He