"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 the smiling dreams of youth and innocence have fled already. I have nothing now to conceal, either from you or from any one else. My life is exposed to everyone'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 have promised him."
"In fact, you love the king," said Montalais, "and that is a sufficiently good excuse."
"Yes, I do love the king," hoarsely murmured the young girl, "and I have paid dearly enough to pronounce those words. And now, Montalais, tell me—what can you do, either for me, or against me, in my present position?"