“She is jealous,” said Marguerite to herself.
“Then,” continued the marquise, “you are quite enamored of the Duke of Buckingham—I mean of M. Fouquet?” Elise felt the allusion, and her blood seemed to congeal in her heart. “And you wished to go to Vincennes,—to Saint-Mande, even?”
“I hardly know what I wished: you would have advised me perhaps.”
“In what respect?”
“You have often done so.”
“Most certainly I should not have done so in the present instance, for I do not forgive as you do. I am less loving, perhaps; when my heart has been once wounded, it remains so always.”
“But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with the most perfect simplicity.
“You perfectly understand what I mean. M. Fouquet has not wounded me; I do not know of either obligation or injury received at his hands, but you have reason to complain of him. You are my friend, and I am afraid I should not advise you as you would like.”
“Ah! you are prejudging the case.”
“The sighs you spoke of just now are more than indications.”