“My reason is simple enough; I am desirous of placing some money in your hands, and naturally I wish to know if you are certain of your post.”
“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply; I cannot conceive your meaning.”
“Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, funds which somewhat embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in land, and am anxious to intrust it to some friend who will turn it to account.”
“Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet.
“On the contrary, it is very pressing.”
“Very well, we will talk of that by and by.”
“By and by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the marquise, pointing out the coffer to the superintendent, and showing him, as she opened it, the bundles of notes and heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had risen from his seat at the same moment as Madame de Belliere, remained for a moment plunged in thought; then suddenly starting back, he turned pale, and sank down in his chair, concealing his face in his hands. “Madame, madame,” he murmured, “what opinion can you have of me, when you make me such an offer?”
“Of you!” returned the marquise. “Tell me, rather, what you yourself think of the step I have taken.”
“You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it because you know me to be embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it, for I am sure of it. Can I not read your heart?”
“If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my heart I offer you?”