“It appears to me that she is of as good a family, and as pretty as you.” “Mother! mother!” cried Louise. “Prettier a hundred times, madame--not of a better family; but that does not tell me why Louise should bear me ill-will.” “Do you think it will be very amusing for her to be buried alive at Blois, when you are going to shine at Paris?” “But, madame, it is not I who prevent Louise following me thither; on the contrary, I should certainly be most happy if she came there.” “But it appears that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court--” “Ah! so much the worse, madame,” said Malicorne, “every one for himself in this poor world.” “Malicorne! Malicorne!” said Montalais. Then stooping towards the young man:-- “Occupy Madame de Saint-Remy, either in disputing with her, or making it up with her; I must speak to Louise.” And, at the same time, a soft pressure of the hand recompensed Malicorne for his future obedience. Malicorne went grumbling towards Madame de Saint-Remy, whilst Montalais said to her friend, throwing one arm around her neck:-- “What is the matter? Tell _me_. Is it true that you would not love me if I were to shine, as your mother says?” “Oh, no!” said the young girl, with difficulty restraining her tears; “on the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune.” “Rejoice! why, one would say you are ready to cry!” “Do people never weep except from envy?” “Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to Paris and that word Paris recalls to your mind a certain cavalier--” “Aure!” “A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and who now resides at Paris.” “In truth, I know not what ails me, but I feel stifled.” “Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smile!” Louise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling down one after the other, illumined like diamonds. “Come, confess,” said Montalais. “What shall I confess?” “What makes you weep; people don’t weep without cause. I am your friend; whatever you would wish me to do, I will do. Malicorne is more powerful than you would think. Do you wish to go to Paris?” “Alas!” sighed Louise. “Do you wish to come to Paris?” “To remain here alone, in this old castle, I who have enjoyed the delightful habit of listening to your songs, of pressing your hand, of running about the park with you. Oh! how I shall be _ennuyee!_ how quickly I shall die!” “Do you wish to come to Paris?” Louise breathed another sigh. “You do not answer me.” “What would you that I should reply?” “Yes or no; that is not very difficult, I think.” “Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!” “That is to say you would like to be in my place.” Louise was silent. “Little obstinate thing!” said Montalais; “did ever any one keep her secrets from her friend thus? But, confess that you would like to come to Paris; confess that you are dying with the wish to see Raoul again.” “I cannot confess that.” “Then you are wrong.” “In what way?” “Because--do you not see this _brevet?_” “To be sure I do.”