Here, then, were unhappy dilettanti of love, who, regarding animal passion as the antipodes, almost the negation, of true passion, rigorously safeguarded their purity, and adopted platonism as the channel through which to bestow their souls on mankind, with a smiling disenchantment, almost happy in possessing at least the assurance that in this harmless game there would be only occasional outbursts of the violence of love. They chose the good part, sowing broadcast, in a soil often ungrateful, the seeds of a love of which they had been harshly deprived, and the fruits of which they hoped probably that others would gather. Many of them had lovers, but true love comes only once, and among these charming women, all fire in appearance, there were some who bore, deep down in their hearts, an unsuspected burden of sorrow which oppressed and overwhelmed them. With some of them passion had never ceased to rumble; some had been seen to become desperately attached to a man (maybe their own husband), or even to fling themselves into a nunnery. The most of them, more sick than those they wished to cure, and faltering inwardly under the outward charms of their devotion, went their way, vainly seeking in life’s desert the heart, the one only heart, sensitive enough to comprehend them. They steered their way composedly among the billows, in complete security, alas! and without adventuring anything but their good sense, at most their good nature, which Anne of France severely calls their hypocrisy. Ah! how they smart for this hypocrisy! How much of their life-blood it costs them! We yearn to strip off their veils, to beseech them to take thought for themselves and put some faith in passion! But no, they lead our woful procession like singing children, and, forcing back their tears like Margaret of France, they strew a few rose-leaves in our doleful path: De petits amours à fleurettes, D’autres petites amourettes, Mesmement de vieilles amours,[165] —_Voiture._