La Vallière alone preserved silence, and quietly shook her head. Then, a moment after, she added, “If you were to tell me, in the presence of a man, but a fourth part of what you have just said, or even if I were assured that you think it, I should die of shame and grief where I am now.” “Very well; die, poor tender little darling,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “for if there are no men here, there are at least two women, your own friends, who declare you to be attained and convicted of being a coquette from instinct; in other words, the most dangerous kind of coquette the world possesses.” “Oh! mesdemoiselles,” replied La Vallière, blushing, and almost ready to weep. Her two companions again burst out laughing. “Very well! I will ask Bragelonne to tell me.” “Bragelonne?” said Athenais. “Yes! Bragelonne, who is as courageous as Caesar, and as clever and witty as M. Fouquet. Poor fellow! for twelve years he has known you, loved you, and yet--one can hardly believe it--he has never even kissed the tips of your fingers.” “Tell us the reason of this cruelty, you who are all heart,” said Athenais to La Vallière. “Let me explain it by a single word--virtue. You will perhaps deny the existence of virtue?” “Come, Louise, tell us the truth,” said Aure, taking her by the hand. “What do you wish me to tell you?” cried La Vallière. “Whatever you like; but it will be useless for you to say anything, for I persist in my opinion of you. A coquette from instinct; in other words, as I have already said, and I say it again, the most dangerous of all coquettes.” “Oh! no, no; for pity’s sake do not believe that!” “What! twelve years of extreme severity.” “How can that be, since twelve years ago I was only five years old? The frivolity of the child cannot surely be placed to the young girl’s account.” “Well! you are now seventeen; three years instead of twelve. During those three years you have remained constantly and unchangeably cruel. Against you are arrayed the silent shades of Blois, the meetings when you diligently conned the stars together, the evening wanderings beneath the plantain-trees, his impassioned twenty years speaking to your fourteen summers, the fire of his glances addressed to yourself.” “Yes, yes; but so it is!” “Impossible!” “But why impossible?” “Tell us something credible and we will believe you.” “Yet, if you were to suppose one thing.” “What is that?” “Suppose that I thought I was in love, and that I am not.” “What! not in love!” “Well, then! if I have acted in a different manner to what others do when they are in love, it is because I do not love; and because my hour has not yet come.” “Louise, Louise,” said Montalais, “take care or I will remind you of the remark you made just now. Raoul is not here; do not overwhelm him while he is absent; be charitable, and if, on closer inspection, you think you do not love him, tell him so, poor fellow!” and she began to laugh.