“Reproaches! Have I a right to make you any?”
“No, unfortunately, no; but tell me, you, who during a year I have loved without return or hope——”
“You are mistaken—without hope it is true, but not without return.”
“What! for me, of my love! there is but one proof, and that proof I still want.”
“I am here to bring it, monsieur.”
Fouquet wished to clasp her in his arms, but she disengaged herself with a gesture.
“You persist in deceiving yourself, monsieur, and never will accept of me the only thing I am willing to give you—devotion.”
“Ah, then, you do not love me? Devotion is but a virtue, love is a passion.”
“Listen to me, I implore you: I should not have come hither without a serious motive: you are well assured of that, are you not?”
“The motive is of very little consequence, so that you are but here—so that I see you—so that I speak to you!”