"I told you, monseigneur," said the marquise, holding her head down from the covetous and anxious gaze of the archduke, "I told you that I was a poor widow who values her reputation, and who really does not deserve your severity."
"Madame—"
"Oh, I do not reproach you, monseigneur. You, no doubt, like many others, believe certain rumours—"
"Rumours, madame!" cried the archduke, delighted to feel his anger kindle again. "Rumours! The scandalous apostasy of the poet, Moser-Hartmann, was a rumour, was it?"
"What you call his apostasy is a fact, monseigneur; that may be, but—"
"Perhaps the degradation of the cardinal legate was also a vain rumour?" continued the archduke, impetuously interrupting Madeleine.
"That may be a fact, monseigneur, but—"
"So, madame, you confess yourself that—"
"Pardon me, monseigneur, listen to me. I am called Madeleine; it is the name of a great sinner, as you know."
"She received pardon, madame."