--'Good God!' she cried, 'how
unhappy are we women! we never can be loved. To you there is nothing
serious in the purest feelings. But never mind; when you cheat us you
still are our dupes!'--'I see that plainly,' said I, with a stricken
air; 'you have far too much wit in your anger for your heart to suffer
from it.'--This modest epigram increased her rage; she found some
tears of vexation. 'You disgust me with the world and with life.' she
said; 'you snatch away all my illusions; you deprave my heart.'
"She said to me all that I had a right to say to her, and with a
simple effrontery, an artless audacity, which would certainly have
nailed any man but me on the spot.--'What is to become of us poor
women in a state of society such as Louis XVIII.'s charter made it?'--
(Imagine how her words had run away with her.)--'Yes, indeed, we are
born to suffer. In matters of passion we are always superior to you,
and you are beneath all loyalty. There is no honesty in your hearts.
To you love is a game in which you always cheat.'--'My dear,' said I,
'to take anything serious in society nowadays would be like making
romantic love to an actress.
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