about together at Vincennes, and, sitting beneath an oak, or in
some sylvan shade, used to talk of those we loved, and who loved us."

"Do you propose that we should go out together now?"

"My carriage is here, and I have three hours at my disposal."

"I am not dressed yet, Marguerite; but if you wish that we should talk
together, we can, without going to the woods of Vincennes, find in my
own garden here, beautiful trees, shady groves, a greensward covered
with daisies and violets, the perfume of which can be perceived from
where we are sitting."

"I regret your refusal, my dear marquise, for I wanted to pour out my
whole heart into yours."

"I repeat again, Marguerite, my heart is yours just as much in this
room, or beneath the lime-trees in the garden here, as it would be under
the oaks in the wood yonder."

"It is not the same thing for me. In approaching Vincennes, marquise,
my ardent aspirations approach nearer to that object towards which they
have for some days past been directed." The marquise suddenly raised
her head. "Are you surprised, then, that I am still thinking of
Saint-Mande?"

"Of Saint-Mande?" exclaimed Madame de Belliere; and the looks of both
women met each other like two resistless swords.

"You, so proud!" said the marquise, disdainfully.

"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 han