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 consequences of all that.  Do you not see how she affects to rouse your jealousy by praising the Chevalier, your ancient rival?  For once, I can assure you that you will not so soon be affected by the languors we mentioned a short time ago.  Jealousy will give you something to think about.  Do you count for nothing, the sufferings of the Marquise?  You will soon see her, the ravages of the smallpox will not alone disfigure her face, for her disposition will be very different, as soon as she learns the extent of her misfortune.  How I pity her; how I pity other women!  With what cordiality she will hate them and tear them to tatters!  The Countess is her best friend, will she be so very long?  She is so handsome, her complexion casts the others in the shade.  What storms I foresee!