angle."[272] As is also
usual--in a way not unconnected in its usuality with that of triangular
sequences--the Princess has more _amitie_ and _estime_ than _amour_ for
her husband, though he, less usually, is desperately in love with her.
So, very shortly, is Nemours, who is represented as an almost
irresistible lady-killer, though no libertine, and of the "respectful"
order. His conduct is not quite that of the Elizabethan or Victorian
ideal gentleman; for he steals his mistress's portrait while it is being
shown to a mixed company; eavesdrops (as will be seen presently) in the
most atrocious manner; chatters about his love affairs in a way almost
worse; and skulks round the Princess's country garden at night in a
manner exceedingly unlikely to do his passion any good, and nearly
certain to do (as it does) her reputation much harm. Still, if not an
Amadis, he is not in the least a Lovelace, and that is saying a good
deal for a French noble of his time. The Princess slowly falls in love
with him (she has seen him steal the portrait, though he does not know
this and she dares say nothing for fear of scandal); and divers Court
and other affairs conduct this concealed _amourette_ (for she prevents
all "declaration") in a manner very cleverly and not too tediously told,
to a point when, though perfectly virtuous in intention, she feels that
she is in danger of losing self-control.

[Sidenote: Its central scene.]

Probably, though it is the best known part of the book, it may be well
to give the central scene, where M. de Nemours plays the eavesdropper to
M. and Mme. de Cleves, and overhears the conversation which, with equal
want of manners and of sense, he afterwards (it is true, without names)
retails to the Vidame de Chartres, a relation of Mme. de Cleves herself,
and a well-known gossip, with a strong additional effect on the fatal
consequences above described. It is pretty long, and some "cutting" will
be necessary.

He[273] heard M. de Cleves say to his wife, "But why do you
wish not to return to Paris? What can keep you in the
country? For some time past you have shown a taste for
solitude which surprises me and pains me, because it keeps
us apart. In fact, I find you sadder than usual, and I am
afraid that something is annoying you." "I have no
mind-trouble," she answered with an embarrassed air; "but
the tumult of the Court is so great, and there is always so
much co