and I am
very sorry not to be able to represent them as they should be. Now I
shall reply to your letter.

The species of languor which affects you does not surprise me. The
malady which afflicts the Marquise has deprived you of the pleasure of
seeing the Countess, and your heart remaining in the same condition
for three days, it is not surprising that ennui should have gained
upon it. Neither does your present indifference for the Countess alarm
me. In the greatest passions there are always moments of lukewarmness,
which astonish the hearts that feel the sensation. Whether the heart,
constantly agitated by the same emotions, finally tires, or whether it
is absolutely impossible for it to be always employed with the same
object, there are moments of indifference, the cause of which can not
be ascertained. The livelier the emotions of the heart, the more
profound the calm that is sure to follow, and it is this calm that is
always more fateful to the object loved than storm and agitation. Love
is extinguished by a resistance too severe or constant. But an
intelligent woman goes beyond that, she varies her manner of
resisting; this is the sublimity of the art.

Now, with the Countess, the duties of friendship are preferable to the
claims of love, and that is another reason for your indifference
toward her. Love is a jealous and tyrannical sentiment, which is never
satiated until the object loved has sacrificed upon its altar all
desires and passions. You do nothing for it unless you do everything.
Whenever you prefer duty, friendship, etc., it claims the right to
complain. It demands revenge. The small courtesies you deemed it
necessary to show Madame de ---- are proofs of it. I would have much
preferred, though, you had not carried them so far as accompanying her
home. The length of time you passed in her company, the pleasure you
experienced in conversing with her, the questions she put to you on
the state of your heart, all goes to prove the truth of what I said in
my last letter. It is vain for you to protest that you came away more
amorous than ever of the Countess, your embarrassment when she
inquired whether you had remained long with your "fermiere generale,"
the attempt you made to deceive her by an evasive answer, the extreme
care you took to disarm her slightest suspicion, are indications to me
that you are far more guilty than you pretend, or than you are aware
of yourself.

The Countess suffers the consequ