"No."
"Very well, I understand; it was done for effect on this fine man, the archduke," Pascal presumed to say with a smile, hoping in some way to draw Madeleine out of this frozen reserve which had begun to make him uneasy. "It is always very adroit to pretend to feel an interest in the dignity of those we govern, because, between us,—beautiful, adorable, as you are,—you can make of this poor prince all that you wish, but I defy you ever to do so with a man of spirit or a brave man."
"Continue."
"Wait, madame marquise, I have not seen your letter of credit," and Pascal opened it. "I wager it is an atrocious meanness. Zounds! I was sure of it,—forty thousand francs! What would make a woman like you do with such a beggarly pittance in Paris? Ah! Ah! Oh!—forty thousand francs. Only a German archduke could be capable of such magnificence."
Madeleine had at first listened to Pascal without comprehending him. Soon she saw his meaning: he regarded her as the mistress of the prince and living on his liberality.
A deep blush mounted suddenly to Madeleine's face. Then a moment of reflection calmed her, and for the sake of her projects she permitted Pascal to keep his opinion, and replied, with a half-smile:
"Evidently you do not like the prince."
"I detest him!" cried Pascal, audaciously, encouraged by the smile of the marquise, and thinking to make a master stroke by braving things out. "I abominate this accursed prince, because he possesses an inestimable treasure—that I would like to take away from him even at the cost of all my—"
And Pascal threw an impassioned look on Madeleine, who replied:
"A treasure? I did not think the prince so rich, since he desired to borrow from you, monsieur."