a door in front of him. This time the door opened upon
a handsome cabinet, sumptuously furnished, in which was seated upon
cushions a lady of surpassing beauty, who at the sound of the lock
sprang towards Fouquet. "Ah! good heavens!" cried the latter, starting
back with astonishment. "Madame la Marquise de Belliere, you here?"

"Yes," murmured la marquise. "Yes; it is I, monsieur."

"Marquise! dear marquise!" added Fouquet, ready to prostrate himself.
"Ah! my God! how did you come here? And I, to keep you waiting!"

"A long time, monsieur; yes, a very long time!"

"I am happy in thinking this waiting has appeared long to you,
marquise!"

"Oh! an eternity, monsieur; oh! I rang more than twenty times. Did you
not hear me?"

"Marquise, you are pale, you tremble."

"Did you not hear, then, that you were summoned?"

"Oh, yes; I heard plainly enough, madame; but I could not come. After
your rigors and your refusals, how could I dream it was you? If I could
have had any suspicion of the happiness that awaited me, believe me,
madame, I would have quitted everything to fall at your feet, as I do at
this moment."

"Are we quite alone, monsieur?" asked the marquise, looking round the
room.

"Oh, yes, madame, I can assure you of that."

"Really?" said the marquise, in a melancholy tone.

"You sigh!" said Fouquet.

"What mysteries! what precautions!" said the marquise, with a slight
bitterness of expression; "and how evident it is that you fear the least
suspicion of your amours to escape."

"Would you prefer their being made public?"

"Oh, no; you act like a delicate man," said the marquise, smiling.

"Come, dear marquise, punish me not with reproaches, I implore you."

"Reproaches! Have I a right to make you any?"

"No, unfortunately, no; but tell me, you, who during a year I have loved
without return or hope--"

"You are mistaken--without hope it is true, but not without return."

"What! for me, of my love! there is but one proof, and that proof I
still want."

"I am here to bring it, monsieur."

Fouquet wished to clasp her in his arms, but she disengaged herself with
a gesture.

"You persist in deceiving yourself, monsieur, and will never accept of
me the only thing I am willing to give you--devotion."

"Ah, then, you do not love me? Devotion is but a virtue, love is a
passion."

"Listen to me, I implore you: I should not have come hither without a
serious motive: you are well assured of that, ar