“I, so proud!” replied Madame Vanel. “Such is my nature. I do not forgive neglect--I cannot endure infidelity. When I leave any one who weeps at my abandonment, I feel induced still to love him; but when others forsake me and laugh at their infidelity, I love distractedly.” Madame de Belliere could not restrain an involuntary movement. “She is jealous,” said Marguerite to herself. “Then,” continued the marquise, “you are quite enamored of the Duke of Buckingham--I mean of M. Fouquet?” Elise felt the allusion, and her blood seemed to congeal in her heart. “And you wished to go to Vincennes,--to Saint-Mande, even?” “I hardly know what I wished: you would have advised me perhaps.” “In what respect?” “You have often done so.” “Most certainly I should not have done so in the present instance, for I do not forgive as you do. I am less loving, perhaps; when my heart has been once wounded, it remains so always.” “But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with the most perfect simplicity. “You perfectly understand what I mean. M. Fouquet has not wounded me; I do not know of either obligation or injury received at his hands, but you have reason to complain of him. You are my friend, and I am afraid I should not advise you as you would like.” “Ah! you are prejudging the case.” “The sighs you spoke of just now are more than indications.” “You overwhelm me,” said the young woman suddenly, as if collecting her whole strength, like a wrestler preparing for a last struggle; “you take only my evil dispositions and my weaknesses into calculation, and do not speak of my pure and generous feelings. If, at this moment, I feel instinctively attracted towards the superintendent, if I even make an advance to him, which, I confess, is very probable, my motive for it is, that M. Fouquet’s fate deeply affects me, and because he is, in my opinion, one of the most unfortunate men living.” “Ah!” said the marquise, placing her hand upon her heart, “something new, then, has occurred?” “Do you not know it?” “I am utterly ignorant of everything about him,” said Madame de Belliere, with the poignant anguish that suspends thought and speech, and even life itself. “In the first place, then, the king’s favor is entirely withdrawn from M. Fouquet, and conferred on M. Colbert.” “So it is stated.” “It is very clear, since the discovery of the plot of Belle-Isle.” “I was told that the discovery of the fortifications there had turned out to M. Fouquet’s honor.” Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a manner that Madame de Belliere could at that moment have delightedly plunged a dagger in her bosom. “Dearest,” continued Marguerite, “there is no longer any question of M. Fouquet’s honor; his safety is concerned. Before three days are passed the ruin of the superintendent will be complete.” “Stay,” said the marquise, in her turn smiling, “that is going a little fast.”