ave
listened with such interest! It was the very best I could do after I
had taken you away from her!"

"Cannot I reproach you with the same thing?" I said, interrupting her,
"and if instead of making me a witness to this singular reconciliation
in which I play so odd a part, you had spoken to me of the marquis--"

"Stop," she said, "little as you know of women, you are aware that
their confidences must be waited for, not asked. But to return to
yourself. Are you very happy with my friend? Ah! I fear the
contrary--"

"Why, madame, should everything that the public amuses itself by
saying claim our belief?"

"You need not dissemble. The countess makes less a mystery of things
than you do. Women of her stamp do not keep the secrets of their loves
and of their lovers, especially when you are prompted by discretion to
conceal her triumph. I am far from accusing her of coquetry; but a
prude has as much vanity as a coquette.--Come, tell me frankly, have
you not cause of complaint against her?"

"But, madame, the air is really too icy for us to stay here. Would you
like to go in?" said I with a smile.

"Do you find it so?--That is singular. The air is quite warm."

She had taken my arm again, and we continued to walk, although I did
not know the direction which we took. All that she had hinted at
concerning the lover of the countess, concerning my mistress, together
with this journey, the incident which took place in the carriage, our
conversation on the grassy bank, the time of night, the moonlight--all
made me feel anxious. I was at the same time carried along by vanity,
by desire, and so distracted by thought, that I was too excited
perhaps to take notice of all that I was experiencing. And, while I
was overwhelmed with these mingled feelings, she continued talking to
me of the countess, and my silence confirmed the truth of all that she
chose to say about her. Nevertheless, certain passages in her talk
recalled me to myself.

"What an exquisite creature she is!" she was saying. "How graceful! On
her lips the utterances of treachery sound like witticism; an act of
infidelity seems the prompting of reason, a sacrifice to propriety;
while she is never reckless, she is always lovable; she is seldom
tender and never sincere; amorous by nature, prudish on principle;
sprightly, prudent, dexterous though utterly thoughtless, varied as
Proteus in her moods, but charming as the Graces in her manner; she
attracts but she e