“Impossible,” exclaimed M. de Rumas, “and some enemy to my wife has thus aspersed her to you.”
“And do you treat it as a mere calumny?” said I. “No, sir, nothing can be more true; and if you would wish further confirmation, behold the letter which madame de Rumas wrote to the king only the day before yesterday; take it and read it.”
“Heaven preserve me, madam,” exclaimed the time-serving wretch, “from. presuming to cast my eyes over what is meant only for his majesty’s gracious perusal; it would be an act of treason I am not capable of committing.”
“Then, sir,” returned I, “I may reasonably conclude that it is with your sanction and concurrence your wife intrigues with the king?”
“Ah, madam,” answered the wily de Rumas, in a soft and expostulating tone, “trouble not, I pray you, the repose of my family. I know too well the virtue of madame de Rumas, her delicacy, and the severity of her principles; I know too well likewise the sentiments in which her excellent parents educated her, and I defy the blackest malice to injure her in my estimation.”
“Wonderfully, sir!” cried I; “so you determine to believe your wife’s virtue incorruptible, all the while you are profiting by her intrigues. However, I am too certain of what I assert to look on with the culpable indifference you are pleased to assume, whilst your virtuous wife is seeking to supplant me at the château; you shall hear of me before long. Adieu, sir.”
So saying, I quitted the room in search of the maréchale, to whom I related what had passed.
“And now, what think you of so base a hypocrite?” asked I, when I had finished my account.
“He well deserves having the mask torn from his face,” replied she; “but give yourself no further concern; return home, and depend upon it, that, one way or other, I will force him into the path of honor.”
I accordingly ordered my carriage and returned to Versailles, where, on the same evening, I received the following letter from the maréchale:—