“Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness of temper.”
“Well, then, it is said that—no, I shall never be able to tell you.”
“Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de Bellière, who detected the ill-nature that was concealed by all these prefaces, yet felt the most anxious curiosity on the subject.
“Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said, for some time past, you no longer continue to regret Monsieur de Bellière as you used to.”
“It is an ill-natured report, Marguerite. I do regret, and shall always regret, my husband; but it is now two years since he died. I am only twenty-eight years old, and my grief at his loss ought not always to control every action and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the model of a wife, would not believe me if I were to say so.”
“Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding,” she said, spitefully.
“Yours is so, too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive that you allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your heart was wounded.” These words were in direct allusion to Marguerite’s rupture with the superintendent, and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend’s heart.
As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, Marguerite exclaimed, “Well, Elise, it is said you are in love.” And she looked fixedly at Madame de Bellière, who blushed against her will.
“Women can never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s pause.
“No one slanders you, Elise.”
“What!—people say that I am in love, and yet they do not slander me!”
“In the first place, if it be true, it is no slander, but simply a scandal-loving report. In the next place—for you did not allow me to finish what I was saying—the public does not assert that you have abandoned yourself to this passion. It represents you, on the contrary, as a virtuous but loving woman, defending yourself with claws and teeth, shutting yourself up in your own house as in a fortress; in other respects, as impenetrable as that of Danaë, notwithstanding Danaë’s tower was made of brass.”
“You are witty, Marguerite,” said Madame de Bellière, angrily.
“You always flatter me, Elise. In short, however, you are reported to be incorruptible and unapproachable. You cannot decide whether the world is calumniating you or not; but what is it you are musing about while I am speaking to you?”
“I?”
“Yes; you are blushing and do not answer me.”
“I was trying,” said the marquise, raising her beautiful eyes brightened with an indication of growing temper, “I was trying to discover to what you could possibly have alluded, you who are so learned in mythological subjects, in comparing me to Danaë.”
“You were trying to guess that?” said Marguerite, laughing.
“Yes; do you not remember that at the convent, when we were solving our problems in arithmetic—ah! what I have to tell you is learned also, but it is my turn—do you not remember, that if one of the terms were given, we were to find the other? Therefore do you guess now?”
“I cannot conjecture what you mean.”
“And yet nothing is more simple. You pretend that I am in love, do you not?”
“So it is said.”
“Very well; it is not said, I suppose, that I am in love with an abstraction. There must surely be a name mentioned in this report.”
“Certainly, a name is mentioned.”
“Very well; it is not surprising, then, that I should try to guess this name, since you do not tell it.”
“My dear marquise, when I saw you blush, I did not think you would have to spend much time in conjectures.”
“It was the word Danaë which you used that surprised me. Danaë means a shower of gold, does it not?”
“That is to say that the Jupiter of Danaë changed himself into a shower of gold for her.”
“My lover, then, he whom you assign me—”
“I beg your pardon; I am your friend, and assign you no one.”
“That may be; but those who are ill disposed towards me.”
“Do you wish to hear the name?”
“I have been waiting this half hour for it.”
“Well, then, you shall hear it. Do not be shocked; he is a man high in power.”
“Good,” said the marquise, as she clenched her hands like a patient at the approach of the knife.
“He is a very wealthy man,” continued Marguerite; “the wealthiest, it may be. In a word, it is—”
The marquise closed her eyes for a moment.
“It is the Duke of Buckingham,” said Marguerite, bursting into laughter. This perfidy had been calculated with extreme ability; the name that was pronounced, instead of the name which the marquise awaited, had precisely the same effect upon her as the badly sharpened axes, that had hacked, without destroying, Messieurs de Chalais and de Thou upon the scaffold. She recovered herself, however, and said, “I was perfectly right in saying you were a witty woman, for you are making the time pass away most agreeably. This joke is a most amusing one, for I have never seen the Duke of Buckingham.”
“Never?” said Marguerite, restraining her laughter.
“I have never even left my own house since the duke has been at Paris.”
“Oh!” resumed Madame Vanel, stretching out her foot towards a paper which was lying on the carpet near the window; “it is not necessary for people to see each other, since they can write.” The marquise trembled, for this paper was the envelope of the letter she was reading as her friend had entered, and was sealed with the superintendent’s arms. As she leaned back on the sofa on which she was sitting, Madame de Bellière covered the paper with the thick folds of her large silk dress, and so concealed it.
“Come, Marguerite, tell me, is it to tell me all these foolish reports that you have come to see me so early in the day?”
“No; I came to see you in the first place, and to remind you of those habits of our earlier days, so delightful to remember, when
