“On my account?” repeated the unhappy girl, mechanically.
“And I, who saw the letter lying on Madame’s desk before she sealed it, fancied I could read—”
“What did you fancy you could read?”
“I might possibly have been mistaken, though—”
“Tell me,—what was it?”
“The name of Bragelonne.”
La Valliere rose hurriedly from her chair, a prey to the most painful agitation. “Montalais,” she said, her voice broken by sobs, “all my smiling dreams of youth and innocence have fled already. I have nothing now to conceal, either from you or any one else. My life is exposed to every one’s inspection, and can be opened like a book, in which all the world can read, from the king himself to the first passer-by. Aure, dearest Aure, what can I do—what will become of me?”
Montalais approached close to her, and said, “Consult your own heart, of course.”
“Well; I do not love M. de Bragelonne; when I say I do not love him, understand that I love him as the most affectionate sister could love the best of brothers, but that is not what he requires, nor what I promised him.”
“In fact, you love the king,” said Montalais, “and that is a sufficiently good excuse.”