_Bossuet._ Flattery will come before you in other and more dangerous forms: you will be commended for excellences which do not belong to you; and this you will find as injurious to your repose as to your virtue. An ingenuous mind feels in unmerited praise the bitterest reproof. If you reject it, you are unhappy; if you accept it, you are undone. The compliments of a king are of themselves sufficient to pervert your intellect. _Fontanges._ There you are mistaken twice over. It is not my person that pleases him so greatly: it is my spirit, my wit, my talents, my genius, and that very thing which you have mentioned--what was it? my intellect. He never complimented me the least upon my beauty. Others have said that I am the most beautiful young creature under heaven; a blossom of Paradise, a nymph, an angel; worth (let me whisper it in your ear--do I lean too hard?) a thousand Montespans. But his Majesty never said more on the occasion than that I was _imparagonable!_ (what is that?) and that he adored me; holding my hand and sitting quite still, when he might have romped with me and kissed me. _Bossuet._ I would aspire to the glory of converting you. _Fontanges._ You may do anything with me but convert me: you must not do that; I am a Catholic born. M. de Turenne and Mademoiselle de Duras were heretics: you did right there. The king told the chancellor that he prepared them, that the business was arranged for you, and that you had nothing to do but get ready the arguments and responses, which you did gallantly--did not you? And yet Mademoiselle de Duras was very awkward for a long while afterwards in crossing herself, and was once remarked to beat her breast in the litany with the points of two fingers at a time, when every one is taught to use only the second, whether it has a ring upon it or not. I am sorry she did so; for people might think her insincere in her conversion, and pretend that she kept a finger for each religion. _Bossuet._ It would be as uncharitable to doubt the conviction of Mademoiselle de Duras as that of M. le Marechal. _Fontanges._ I have heard some fine verses, I can assure you, monseigneur, in which you are called the conqueror of Turenne. I should like to have been his conqueror myself, he was so great a man. I understand that you have lately done a much more difficult thing. _Bossuet._ To what do you refer, mademoiselle? _Fontanges._ That you have overcome quietism. Now, in the name of wonder, how could you manage that? _Bossuet._ By the grace of God. _Fontanges._ Yes, indeed; but never until now did God give any preacher so much of His grace as to subdue this pest. _Bossuet._ It has appeared among us but lately. _Fontanges._ Oh, dear me! I have always been subject to it dreadfully, from a child. _Bossuet._ Really! I never heard so. _Fontanges._ I checked myself as well as I could, although they constantly told me I looked well in it. _Bossuet._ In what, mademoiselle?