Caroline.—Mamma, I have never wished to deceive any one, I assure you.
Madame de Boissy.—I grant you that we do not say to ourselves, I wish to deceive; we should be horrified; but, without telling absolute falsehoods, people often pass their lives in endeavouring to make others believe things which are untrue. If we are cold, or hot, or tired, we complain of our sufferings; we exaggerate them in order to attract attention, and gain pity, or at least to make people think of us. We laugh louder than we feel inclined to do, to make it appear that we are very gay; we look in the glass, and exclaim, "How, I am sunburnt!" in order that we may be told that it is imperceptible, and be complimented on our complexion. We complain of a dress that fits badly, and say, "What a fright I look to-day," in the hope of finding some sycophant who will assure us that we look well in everything. Or, finally, we give expression to some worthy sentiment in order to be praised for it.
Caroline.—But, mamma, if the sentiment be sincere?
Madame de Boissy.—My dear child, there is always insincerity in the means employed to obtain praise for it; for good feelings are not intended to gain us admiration, but to make us do what is right. We should not esteem the benevolence of a man, who did good merely for the sake of obtaining commendation; nor the fraternal sentiments of him whose sole object in displaying them was to be praised for his attachment to his brothers and sisters. Thus, those who make a display of feeling for the sake of being praised, must take care to conceal their intentions; consequently, if they obtain the praise, it is quite clear that they have stolen it.
Caroline.—But one must then watch every movement of the mind, for these things may escape us without our in the least intending it.
Madame de Boissy.—To prevent them from doing so, it is only necessary to think, once for all, of two or three things. First, that we display very little respect or consideration for ourselves when we stoop to deceive others, in order that they may condescend to pay attention to us. Secondly, that we place ourselves in a very humiliating position when we thus beg for a flattery, a compliment, or a mark of attention, which is usually granted from mere politeness, or for the sake of pleasing us, just as we give a penny to a beggar in the street. Finally, that these kinds of stratagems, when they are discovered—and they are discovered oftener than people imagine—may overwhelm us with ridicule, or even with shame, and that the most trifling untruth exposes us to a risk far greater than the pleasure which it procures. Tell me if your sash would ever afford you a pleasure as great as the annoyance you would feel, if your uncle were to discover the subterfuge you employed in order to induce him to make you a present of it.
Caroline.—Oh! mamma, you have made me absolutely hate it. I will never even look at it again.
Madame de Boissy.—There you are wrong, my child; you must look at it, and think of it, in order that it may remind you of the necessity of always acting honourably.
THIRD DIALOGUE.
Monsieur de Bonnel—Augustus, his Son.