of the flowers, sat down, and was soon plunged in profound thought.
Her deep musings, melancholy though they were, were not untinged with a
certain vague joy. Spread out before her was a treasure, a million wrung
from her fortune as a gleaner plucks the blue corn-flower from her crown
of flowers. She conjured up the sweetest dreams. Her principal thought,
and one that took precedence of all others, was to devise means of
leaving this money for M. Fouquet without his possibly learning from
whom the gift had come. This idea, naturally enough, was the first to
present itself to her mind. But although, on reflection, it appeared
difficult to carry out, she did not despair of success. She would then
ring to summon M. Fouquet and make her escape, happier than if, instead
of having given a million, she had herself found one. But, being there,
and having seen the boudoir so coquettishly decorated that it might
almost be said the least particle of dust had but the moment before been
removed by the servants; having observed the drawing-room, so perfectly
arranged that it might almost be said her presence there had driven away
the fairies who were its occupants, she asked herself if the glance or
gaze of those whom she had displaced--whether spirits, fairies, elves,
or human creatures--had not already recognized her. To secure success,
it was necessary that some steps should be seriously taken, and it was
necessary also that the superintendent should comprehend the serious
position in which he was placed, in order to yield compliance with
the generous fancies of a woman; all the fascinations of an eloquent
friendship would be required to persuade him, and, should this be
insufficient, the maddening influence of a devoted passion, which, in
its resolute determination to carry conviction, would not be turned
aside. Was not the superintendent, indeed, known for his delicacy and
dignity of feeling? Would he allow himself to accept from any woman that
of which she had stripped herself? No! He would resist, and if any voice
in the world could overcome his resistance, it would be the voice of the
woman he loved.

Another doubt, and that a cruel one, suggested itself to Madame de
Belliere with a sharp, acute pain, like a dagger thrust. Did he really
love her? Would that volatile mind, that inconstant heart, be likely to
be fixed for a moment, even were it to gaze upon an angel? Was it not
the same with Fouquet, notwithstanding his genius