"Nothing, nothing, I assure you," replied the marquise, faintly; "but the gallery is so very hot, it gave me a violent headache. Let us sit down here for a minute or two. I hope and believe it will soon be better."
"You are right; see, here is a nice quiet corner, where you will be in perfect safety from the researches of those who are lamenting your absence," added Sarah, pronouncing the last words with marked emphasis.
The two ladies then seated themselves on a divan, almost concealed beneath the clustering shrubs and overhanging plants.
"I said those who would be lamenting your absence, my dear Clémence,—come, own that I deserve praise for so discreetly forming my speech."
The marquise blushed slightly, cast down her eyes, but spoke not.
"How unreasonable you are!" exclaimed Sarah, in a tone of friendly reproach. "Can you not trust me, my dear child?—yes, child; for am I not old enough to be your mother?"
"Not trust you?" uttered the marquise, sadly; "alas! have I not on the contrary confessed that to you which I should hardly have dared to own to myself?"
"Well, then, come, rouse yourself; now, let us have a little talk about him: and so you have really sworn to drive him to despair?"
"For the love of heaven," exclaimed Madame d'Harville, "think what you are saying!"
"I tell you I know him better than you do, my poor child; he is a man of cool and decided energy, who sets but little value on his life; he has had misfortunes enough to make him quite weary of it; and it really seems as if you daily found greater pleasure in tormenting him, and playing with his feelings."