g unkind to you.
But you may be sure that one day of such caprice advances the progress
of a lover more than a year of care and assiduity. A woman soon begins
to regret her unkindness; she deems herself unjust; she desires to
repair her fault, and she becomes benevolent.

What surprises me the most is the marked passage in your letter which
states that since the Countess has appeared to love you, her
character has totally changed. I have no particular information on
that point. All I know is, that she made her debut in society as a
lady of elegance, and her debut was all the more marked because,
during the life of her husband, her conduct was entirely the contrary.
Do you not remember when you first made her acquaintance, that she was
lively even to giddiness, heedless, bold, even coquettish, and
appeared to be incapable of a reasonable attachment? However, to-day,
you tell me, she has become a serious melancholic; pre-occupied,
timid, affected; sentiment has taken the place of mincing airs; at
least she appears to so fit in with the character she assumes to-day,
that you imagine it to be her true one, and her former one, borrowed.
All my philosophy would be at fault in such a case, if I did not
recognize in this metamorphosis the effects of love. I am very much
mistaken if the storm raging around you to-day, does not end in the
most complete victory, and one all the more assured because she has
done everything in her power to prevent it. But if you steadily pursue
your object, carrying your pursuit even as far as importunity, follow
her wherever she goes and where you can see her; if you take it upon
yourself not to allude to your passion, and treat her with all the
mannerism of an attentive follower, respectful, but impressed, what
will happen? She will be unable to refuse you the courtesies due any
indifferent acquaintance. Women possess an inexhaustible fund of
kindness for those who love them. You know this well, you men, and it
is what always reassures you when you are treated unkindly. You know
that your presence, your attentions, the sorrow that affects you have
their effect, and end by disarming our pride.

You are persuaded that those whom our virtue keeps at a distance
through pride, are precisely those whom it fears the most, and
unfortunately, your guess is only too just, it keeps them off, indeed,
because it is not sure of its ability to resist them. It does more
sometimes, it goes to the length of bravi