We have repeated over and over again that the love of a man, who loves well, delights in and vibrates to every movement of his imagination, and that there is nothing in nature which does not speak to him of the object of his love. Well, this delight and this vibration form a most interesting occupation, next to which all others pale. A friend who wants to work the cure of the patient, must, first of all, be always on the side of the woman [Pg 147] the patient is in love with--and all friends, with more zeal than sense, are sure to do exactly the opposite. It is attacking with forces too absurdly inferior that combination of sweet illusions, which earlier we called crystallisation.[3] The _friend in need_ should not forget this fact, that, if there is an absurdity to be believed, as the lover has either to swallow it or renounce everything which holds him to life, he will swallow it. With all the cleverness in the world, he will deny in his mistress the most palpable vices and the most villainous infidelities. This is how, in passion-love, everything is forgiven after a little. In the case of reasonable and cold characters, for the lover to swallow the vices of a mistress, he must only find them out after several months of passion.[4] Far from trying bluntly and openly to distract the lover, the _friend in need_ ought to tire him with talking of his love and his mistress, and at the same time manage that a host of little events force themselves upon his notice. Even if travel isolates,[5] it is still no remedy, and in fact nothing recalls so tenderly the object of our love as change of scene. It was in the midst of the brilliant Paris _salons_, next to women with the greatest reputation for charm, that I was most in love with my poor mistress, solitary and sad in her little room in the depth of the Romagna.[6] I looked at the superb clock in the brilliant _salon_, where I was exiled, for the hour she goes out on foot, even in the rain, to call on her friend. Trying to forget her, I have found that change of scene is the source of memories of one's love, less vivid but far more heavenly [Pg 148] than those one goes in search for in places, where once upon a time one met her. In order that absence may prove useful, the _friend in need_ must be always at hand, and suggest to the lover's mind all possible reflections on the history of his love, trying to make these reflections tiresome through their length and importunity. In this way he gives them the appearance of commonplaces. For example, tender sentimental talk after a dinner enlivened with good wine. It is hard to forget a woman, with whom one has been happy; for, remember, that there are certain moments the imagination can never be tired of evoking and beautifying. I leave out all mention of pride, cruel but sovereign remedy, which, however, is not to be applied to sensitive souls.