he
present state of your heart, the heroines of the theater are not
dangerous to you. But the Countess is less indulgent, you say. Her
jealousy does not astonish me, she confirms my ideas concerning female
metaphysicians. I know how much credit is due their sincerity. Her
complaints are very singular, for, what is she deprived of? The women
in question are nothing but women of sentiment, and it is to sentiment
that the Countess is attached.

How little women are in accord! They pretend to despise women of the
stage; they fear them too much to despise them. But after all, are
they wrong to consider them rivals? Are you not more captivated with
their free and easy style, than with that of a sensible woman who has
nothing to offer but order, decency, and uniformity? With the former,
men are at their ease, they appear to be in their element; with the
latter, men are kept within bounds, obliged to stand on their
dignity, and to be very circumspect. From the portrait of several of
them, I should judge that there are some of them very capable of
making many men unfaithful to the most beloved mistress. But with a
sensible man, this infidelity, if it be one, can not be of long
duration. These women may create a sudden, lively desire, but never a
veritable passion.

The fairies of the operatic stage would be too dangerous, if they had
the wit or the humor always to amuse you as much as they do the first
time you are thrown on their company. However little jargon, habits,
and decency they have on the surface, it is possible that they may
please you at first. You men have so little refinement sometimes! The
freedom of their conversation, the vivacity of their sallies of
alleged wit, their giddy ways, all this affords you a situation that
charms; a lively and silly joy seizes upon you, the hours you pass
with them seem to be only moments. But happily for you, they seldom
possess sufficient resources to maintain a role so amusing. Inasmuch
as they lack education and culture, they soon travel around the small
circle of their accomplishments. They feed you with the same
pleasantries, the same stories, the same antics, and it is seldom one
laughs twice at the same thing when one has no esteem for the fun
maker.

The Countess need not worry, for I know you well enough to assure her
that it is not that class of women she may apprehend, there are in the
world, others more redoubtable, they are the "gallant women," those
equivocal wome