At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis the prisoners in the Bastile, a carriage drew up at Madame de Belliere’s door, and, at that still early hour, a young woman alighted, her head muffled in a silk hood. When the servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame de Belliere, the latter was engaged, or rather was absorbed, in reading a letter, which she hurriedly concealed. She had hardly finished her morning toilette, her maid being still in the next room. At the name--at the footsteps of Marguerite Vanel, Madame de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied she could detect in her friend’s eyes a brightness which was neither that of health nor of pleasure. Marguerite embraced her, pressed her hands, and hardly allowed her time to speak. “Dearest,” she said, “have you forgotten me? Have you quite given yourself up to the pleasures of the court?” “I have not even seen the marriage _fetes_.” “What are you doing with yourself, then?” “I am getting ready to leave for Belliere.” “For Belliere?” “Yes.” “You are becoming rustic in your tastes, then; I delight to see you so disposed. But you are pale.” “No, I am perfectly well.” “So much the better; I was becoming uneasy about you. You do not know what I have been told.” “People say so many things.” “Yes, but this is very singular.” “How well you know how to excite curiosity, Marguerite.” “Well, I was afraid of vexing you.” “Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness of temper.” “Well, then, it is said that--no, I shall never be able to tell you.” “Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de Belliere, who detected the ill-nature that was concealed by all these prefaces, yet felt the most anxious curiosity on the subject. “Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said, for some time past, you no longer continue to regret Monsieur de Belliere as you used to.” “It is an ill-natured report, Marguerite. I do regret, and shall always regret, my husband; but it is now two years since he died. I am only twenty-eight years old, and my grief at his loss ought not always to control every action and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the model of a wife, would not believe me if I were to say so.” “Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding,” she said, spitefully. “Yours is so, too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive that you allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your heart was wounded.” These words were in direct allusion to Marguerite’s rupture with the superintendent, and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend’s heart. As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, Marguerite exclaimed, “Well, Elise, it is said you are in love.” And she looked fixedly at Madame de Belliere, who blushed against her will. “Women can never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s pause. “No one slanders you, Elise.” “What!--people say that I am in love, and yet they do not slander me!”