tion of two who are desirous of blending their beings into one. If I ever love, I shall implore my lover to leave me free and pure; I will tell him, what he will understand, that my heart was torn by my refusal, and he, in his love for me, aware of the magnitude of my sacrifice — he, in his turn, I say, will store his devotion for me — will respect me, and will not seek my ruin, to insult me when I shall have fallen, as you said just now, when uttering your blasphemies against love, such as I understand it. That is my idea of love. And now you will tell me, perhaps, that my lover will despise me. I defy him to do so, unless he be the vilest of men, and my heart assures me that it is not such a man I should choose. A look from me will repay him for the sacrifices he makes, or it will inspire him with virtues which he would never think he possessed."
"But, Louise," exclaimed Montalais, "you tell us this, and do not carry it into practice."
"What do you mean?"
"You are adored by Raoul de Bragelonne, who worships you on both his knees. The poor fellow is made the victim of your virtue. Just as he would be — nay, more than he would be even, of my coquetry, or of Athenais" pride."
"This is simply a different shade of coquetry," said Athenais; "and Louise, I perceive, is a coquette without knowing it."
"Oh!" said La Valliere.
"Yes, you may call it instinct, if you please, keenest sensibility, exquisite refinement of feeling, perpetual display of unrestrained outbreaks of affection, which end in nothing. It is very artful too, and very effective. I should even, now that I reflect on it, have preferred this system of tactics to my own pride, for waging war with members of the other sex, because it offers the advantage sometimes of thoroughly convincing them; but at the present moment, without utterly condemning myself, I declare it to be superior to the simple coquetry of Montalais." And the two young girls began to laugh.
La Valliere alone preserved a 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 Mlle. de Tonnay-Charente; "for, if there are no men here, there are at least two women, your own friends, who declare you to
