“Love,” said she, “unless it leads to the possession of the beloved object, is a mere torment; if bounds are placed to passion, love must die.”
“You are right; and the enjoyment of a beautiful object is not a true pleasure unless it be preceded by love.”
“No doubt if love precedes it accompanies, but I do not think it necessarily follows, enjoyment.”
“True, it often makes love to cease.”
“She is a selfish daughter, then, to kill her father; and if after enjoyment love still continue in the heart of one, it is worse than murder, for the party in which love still survives must needs be wretched.”
“You are right; and from your strictly logical arguments I conjecture that you would have the senses kept in subjection: that is too hard!”
“I would have nothing to do with that Platonic affection devoid of love, but I leave you to guess what my maxim would be.”
“To love and enjoy; to enjoy and love. Turn and turn about.”
“You have hit the mark.”
With this Leonilda burst out laughing, and the duke kissed her hand. Her governess, not understanding French, was attending to the opera, but I was in flames.