"My dear Louise," replied Montalais, after a pause, "I am not one of those seven wise men of Greece, and I have no perfectly invariable rules of conduct to govern me; but, on the other hand, I have a little experience, and I can assure you that no woman ever asks for advice of the nature which you have just asked me, without being in a terrible state of embarrassment. Besides, you have made a solemn promise, which every principle of honor would require you to fulfill;—if, therefore, you are embarrassed, in consequence of having undertaken such an engagement, it is not a stranger's advice (every one is a stranger to a heart full of love), it is not my advice, I repeat, which will extricate you from your embarrassment. I shall not give it you, therefore; and for a greater reason still—because, were I in your place, I should feel much more embarrassed after the advice than before it. All I can do is, to repeat what I have already told you: shall I assist you?"
"Yes, yes."
"Very well; that is all. Tell me in what way you wish me to help you; tell me for and against whom—in this way we shall not make any blunders."
"But first of all," said La Valliere, pressing her companion's hand, "for whom or against whom do you decide?"
"For you, if you are really and truly my friend."
"Are you not Madame's confidante?"
"A greater reason for being of service to you; if I were not to know what is going on in that direction, I should not be able to be of any service at all, and consequently you would not obtain any advantage from my acquaintance. Friendships live and thrive upon a system of reciprocal benefit."
"The result is, then, that you will remain at the same time Madame's friend also?"
"Evidently. Do you complain of that?"
"No," said La Valliere, thoughtfully, for that cynical frankness appeared to her an offense addressed both to the woman as well as to the friend.