have seen not a trace of it. True, I have caught in drawing-rooms now
and again a quick exchange of glances, but how colorless it all is!
Love, as we imagined it, a world of wonders, of glorious dreams, of
charming realities, of sorrows that waken sympathy, and smiles that
make sunshine, does not exist. The bewitching words, the constant
interchange of happiness, the misery of absence, the flood of joy at
the presence of the beloved one--where are they? What soil produces
these radiant flowers of the soul? Which is wrong? We or the world?

I have already seen hundreds of men, young and middle-aged; not one
has stirred the least feeling in me. No proof of admiration and
devotion on their part, not even a sword drawn in my behalf, would
have moved me. Love, dear, is the product of such rare conditions that
it is quite possible to live a lifetime without coming across the
being on whom nature has bestowed the power of making one's happiness.
The thought is enough to make one shudder; for if this being is found
too late, what then?

For some days I have begun to tremble when I think of the destiny of
women, and to understand why so many wear a sad face beneath the flush
brought by the unnatural excitement of social dissipation. Marriage is
a mere matter of chance. Look at yours. A storm of wild thoughts has
passed over my mind. To be loved every day the same, yet with a
difference, to be loved as much after ten years of happiness as on the
first day!--such a love demands years. The lover must be allowed to
languish, curiosity must be piqued and satisfied, feeling roused and
responded to.

Is there, then, a law for the inner fruits of the heart, as there is
for the visible fruits of nature? Can joy be made lasting? In what