“Listen,” he said. “Do you think that I could deceive you, give you disloyal advice through interest or evil passion?”
“No; what do you mean by that?”
“Don’t compromise yourself with María Lucena.”
“Why?”
“Because she is a perverse woman.”
“That’s because you hate her.”
“No; I know her because I have lived with her without the slightest feeling of affection; and even so she was more selfish and cold than I was. She is a woman who thinks she has a heart because she has sex. She weeps, laughs, appears to be good, seems ingenuous: sex. Like some lascivious and cruel animal, in her heart she hates the male. If you approach her candidly, she will destroy your life, she will alienate you from your father and mother, she will play with you most cruelly.”
“Do you really believe that?” asked the Swiss.
“Yes, it is the truth, the pure truth. Now,” Quentin added, “if you are like a stone in a ravine, that can only fall, you will fall; but if you can defend yourself, do so. And now—farewell!”
“Farewell, Quentin; I shall think over what you have told me.”