in her own strength, and she felt that she loved Fouquet beyond everything else. She rose and approached him, saying, "You wrote to me this morning to say you were beginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen lately, had no doubt ceased to think of you. I have come to undeceive you, monsieur, and the more completely so, because there is one thing I can read in your eyes."
"What is that, madame?" said Fouquet, astonished.
"That you have never loved me so much as at this moment; in the same manner you can read, in my present steps toward you, that I have not forgotten you."
"Oh, madame!" said Fouquet, whose face was for a moment lighted up by a sudden gleam of joy, "you are indeed an angel, and no man can suspect you. All he can do is to humble himself before you, and entreat forgiveness."
"Your forgiveness is granted, then," said the marquise. Fouquet was about to throw himself upon his knees. "No, no," she said, "sit here by my side. Ah! that is an evil thought which has just crossed your mind."
"How do you detect it, madame?"
"By a smile which has just injured the expression of your countenance. Be candid, and tell me what your thought was — no secrets between friends."
"Tell me, then, madame, why have you been so harsh these three or four months past?"
"Harsh?"
"Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?"
"Alas!" said Mme. de Bellière, sighing, "because your visit to me was the cause of your being visited with a great misfortune; because my house is watched; because the same eyes which have already seen you might see you again; because I think it less dangerous for you that I should come here than that you should come to my house; and, lastly, because I know you to be already unhappy enough not to wish to increase your unhappiness further."
Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties connected with his office of surintendant — he who, for the last few minutes, had indulged in all the wild aspirations of the lover. "I unhappy?" he said, endeavoring to smile; "indeed, marquise, you will almost make me believe that I am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful eyes raised upon me merely in pity? — I look for another expression from them,"
"It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look in the mirror there — it is you who are so."
