re of steps which sank, winding, underground,
and came to a long, subterranean passage, lighted by imperceptible
loopholes. The walls of this vault were covered with slabs or tiles,
and the floor with carpeting. This passage was under the street itself,
which separated Fouquet's house from the Park of Vincennes. At the end
of the passage ascended a winding staircase parallel with that by which
Fouquet had entered. He mounted these other stairs, entered by means
of a spring placed in a closet similar to that in his cabinet, and from
this closet an untenanted chamber furnished with the utmost elegance.
As soon as he entered, he examined carefully whether the glass
closed without leaving any trace, and, doubtless satisfied with
his observation, he opened by means of a small gold key the triple
fastenings of a door in front of him. This time the door opened upon
a handsome cabinet sumptuously furnished, in which was seated upon
cushions a lady of surpassing beauty, who at the sound of the lock
sprang towards Fouquet. "Ah! good heavens!" cried the latter, starting
back with astonishment. "Madame la Marquise de Belliere, you here?"

"Yes," murmured la marquise. "Yes; it is I, monsieur."

"Marquise! dear marquise!" added Fouquet, ready to prostrate himself.
"Ah! my God! how did you come here? And I, to keep you waiting!"

"A long time, monsieur; yes, a very long time!"

"I am happy in thinking this waiting has appeared long to you,
marquise!"

"Oh! an eternity, monsieur; oh! I rang more than twenty times. Did you
not hear me?"

"Marquise, you are pale, you tremble."

"Did you not hear, then, that you were summoned?"

"Oh, yes; I heard plainly enough, madame; but I could not come. After
your rigors and your refusals, how could I dream it was you? If I could
have had any suspicion of the happiness that awaited me, believe me,
madame, I would have quitted everything to fall at your feet, as I do at
this moment."

"Are we quite alone, monsieur?" asked the marquise, looking round the
room.

"Oh, yes, madame, I can assure you of that."

"Really?" said the marquise, in a melancholy tone.

"You sigh!" said Fouquet.

"What mysteries! what precautions!" said the marquise, with a slight
bitterness of expression; "and how evident it is that you fear the least
suspicion of your amours to escape."

"Would you prefer their being made public?"

"Oh, no; you act like a delicate man," said the marquise, smiling.

"Come, dea