“Oh! monsieur, that is only a pretext. If you were really in love, you would fear but one thing—not to be loved in return.”
“But, madame, there are sacrifices——”
“Not another word. Confess that you love Diana no longer; it will be more worthy of a gallant man.”
Bussy grew pale.
“You do not dare to tell her; well, I will.”
“Madame! madame!”
“You are rich, you men, with your sacrifices. And does she make none? What! expose herself to be massacred by that tiger of a Monsoreau, preserve her position only by employing a strength of will of which Samson or Hannibal would have been incapable. Oh! I swear, Diana is sublime, I could not do a quarter of what she does every day.”
“Thank you!” said St. Luc.
“And he hesitates!” continued she, “he does not fall on his knees and say his mea culpa.”
“You are right,” said Bussy, “I am but a man, that is to say, an imperfect creature, inferior to the most commonplace woman.”