“One moment more, I entreat you, monseigneur; and forgive me, if I seem to fail in respect to questioning you further.”
“It is your duty to do so, nay, more than that, your right.”
“Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret forgetting another friend of mine.”
“M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean; oh! as far as he is concerned, his interests are more than safe.”
“No; it is not he whom I intended to refer to.”
“The Comte de la Fere, then?”
“And his son, the son of all four of us.”
“That poor boy who is dying of love for La Valliere, whom my brother so disloyally bereft him of? Be easy on that score. I shall know how to rehabilitate his happiness. Tell me only one thing, Monsieur d’Herblay; do men, when they love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom, or is it one of the laws of the human heart?”
“A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere, finishes by forgetting the fault or crime of the woman he loves; but I do not yet know whether Raoul will be able to forget.”
“I will see after that. Have you anything further to say about your friend?”