Only don't
weep any more, your tears break my heart. Ah, my God! how cruel it is
to distress you so! I should never be able to withstand your tears; no
matter what reason I had for anger, a look from you would make me forgive
you everything."

"Noble young man!" said Angelique.

"Idiot!" muttered Maitre Quennebert; "swallow the honey of his words, do
But how the deuce is it going to end? Not Satan himself ever invented
such a situation."

"But then I could never believe you guilty without proof, irrefutable
proof; and even then a word from you would fill my mind with doubt and
uncertainty again. Yes, were the whole world to accuse you and swear to
your guilt, I should still believe your simple word. I am young, madam,
I have never known love as yet--until an instant ago I had no idea that
more quickly than an image can excite the admiration of the eye, a
thought can enter the heart and stir it to its depths, and features that
one may never again behold leave a lifelong memory behind. But even if a
woman of whom I knew absolutely nothing were to appeal to me, exclaiming,
'I implore your help, your protection!' I should, without stopping to
consider, place my sword and my arm at her disposal, and devote myself to
her service. How much more eagerly would I die for you, madam, whose
beauty has ravished my heart! What do you demand of me? Tell me what
you desire me to do."

"Prevent this duel; don't allow an interview to take place between your
uncle and the man whom he mentioned. Tell me you will do this, and I
shall be safe; for you have never learned to lie; I know."

"Of course he hasn't, you may be sure of that, you simpleton!" muttered
Maitre Quennebert in his corner. "If you only knew what a mere novice
you are at that game compared with the chevalier! If you only knew whom
you had before you!"

"At your age," went on Angelique, "one cannot feign--the heart is not yet
hardened, and is capable of compassion. But a dreadful idea occurs to
me--a horrible suspicion! Is it all a devilish trick--a snare arranged
in joke? Tell me that it is not all a pretence! A poor woman encounters
so much perfidy. Men amuse themselves by troubling her heart and
confusing her mind; they excite her vanity, they compass her round with
homage, with flattery, with temptation, and when they grow tired of
fooling her, they despise and insult her. Tell me, was this all a
preconcerted plan? This love, this jealousy, were