Woe to you, my Colin! Why didn't you heed my pleas for abstinence? Now your brilliant intellect has been reduced to bruises. While you regain the spirit of yesteryear, silence! The libertine has to know herself as such, before setting off. Silence! Your suffocation was to precipitate the death of the lycaon. He tied a knot over you himself, and compressed —marquisette, marquisette— your neck! In his cowardice, perhaps mediated by a gentle kiss of a golden fleece (or les Malheurs de la vertu), he homologated you to the Patriarch. I know I don't deserve you, my Colin!

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