I
believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling,
hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and
infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to
send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not
submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will
have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise
within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets,
doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity.
Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am
only talking of myself--"
"--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every
hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse
de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my
dear poet."
"Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer
to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?"
"But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also
something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband.
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