Really, my dear friend, you have not common sense; you are in despair; you can never console yourself for a conduct which nothing can excuse the illusion is vanished, &c. &c – These are fine expressions! … What words, what a romantic style! and all this to say you have a lover, and that you do not feel for him that extreme tenderness which only exists in imagination. You prefer him; you love him better than any other. But this is not the kind of love we admired so much. in Cleveland, or Zaide; but such as it really is. Ah! do you reckon as nothing the charms of being beloved, obeyed, and the pleasure of commanding? You shall always you say be unhappy, because you have an extreme delicacy and a steady mind. What can there be worse? We are never satisfied, and we cannot deceive ourselves. As for me, I have the happy talent of pleasing myself, at least for some time; and, when one fancy is at an end, I repair the loss by forming another. And therefore you see me, by turns, indifferent in love, a coquette; and always what I appear to be; because, when I undertake a part, I go through with it. My inclinations yield to it, and it appears as if it were my real sentiments. This is all the artifice I make use of. I leave you to judge whether it is excusable, since, instead of deceiving others, I begun by deceiving myself.

I agree with you, if one could dive into futurity, one never would encourage a lover. If one was but sensible, that the pains and the emotions we experience before the fatal confession were the principal pleasures of love, and that the moment we deviate from the path of rectitude, we find the sweet enchantment to be broken for ever, we should never wish to be under such delusions.