"Can it be true?" cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. "Can it really be true, M. le Marquis? And now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady's love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement was your sole misery, as you told me."
"And to whom but you should I have told it, my worthy old Joseph? Do not you possess, also, a still sadder secret? But do not let us say anything more of sorrows now,—it is too bright a time. You see, perhaps, that I have been weeping? It is because this happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little anticipated it! How weak I am!—am I not?"
"Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy as much as you please, for you have wept long enough for pain; and now see, do not I do as you do? They are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is, not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her."
"Silly old fellow! Why you are as weak as your master. And now I have but one fear."
"And what is that?"
"That this will not last; I am too happy. What now is wanting to me?"
"Nothing,—nothing, M. le Marquis,—absolutely nothing."
"That is why I mistrust such perfect happiness,—too complete."
"Alas! If that is all, why, M. le Marquis—But no, I dare not."
"I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being nearly cured."