e you not?"

"The motive is of very little consequence, so that you are but here--so
that I see you--so that I speak to you!"

"You are right; the principal thing is that I am here without any one
having seen me, and that I can speak to you."--Fouquet sank on his knees
before her. "Speak! speak, madame!" said he, "I listen to you."

The marquise looked at Fouquet, on his knees at her feet, and there
was in the looks of the woman a strange mixture of love and melancholy.
"Oh!" at length murmured she, "would that I were she who has the right
of seeing you every minute, of speaking to you every instant! would
that I were she who might watch over you, she who would have no need of
mysterious springs to summon and cause to appear, like a sylph, the man
she loves, to look at him for an hour, and then see him disappear in the
darkness of a mystery, still more strange at his going out than at his
coming in. Oh! that would be to live like a happy woman!"

"Do you happen, marquise," said Fouquet, smiling, "to be speaking of my
wife?"

"Yes, certainly, of her I spoke."

"Well, you need not envy her lot, marquise; of all the women with whom
I have had any relations, Madame Fouquet is the one I see the least of,
and who has the least intercourse with me."

"At least, monsieur, she is not reduced to place, as I have done, her
hand upon the ornament of a glass to call you to her; at least you do
not reply to her by the mysterious, alarming sound of a bell, the spring
of which comes from I don't know where; at least you have not forbidden
her to endeavor to discover the secret of these communications under
pain of breaking off forever your connections with her, as you have
forbidden all who come here before me, and who will come after me."

"Dear marquise, how unjust you are, and how little do you know what you
are doing in thus exclaiming against mystery; it is with mystery alone
we can love without trouble; it is with love without trouble alone that
we can be happy. But let us return to ourselves, to that devotion
of which you were speaking, or rather let me labor under a pleasing
delusion, and believe this devotion is love."

"Just now," repeated the marquise, passing over her eyes a hand that
might have been a model for the graceful contours of antiquity; "just
now I was prepared to speak, my ideas were clear and bold; now I am
quite confused, quite troubled; I fear I bring you bad news."

"If it is to that bad news I ow