"Alas!" replied her victim, her cheeks now suffused with a burning blush, "I see him almost daily. Those hours are all that render life endurable."
"Do you really mean this, dear Duchess?" returned Madame de Montespan, feigning extreme surprise. "I should have imagined that the refinement of your nature would have rendered the indulgence of a guilty passion impossible."
"Ah! I see you despise me," groaned poor La Vallière, overcome by shame. "I cannot wonder. Young and pure as you are, I must be to you an object of horror."
"Oh, Madame la Duchesse, what a word! On the contrary, I admire the sacrifice you make."
"Alas!" interrupted La Vallière, "it is no sacrifice. I cannot tear myself from him because—because—" she stopped for a moment, then added hastily, "I fear to give him pain. It seems to me I ought to bear anything rather than hurt one whose love has raised me so near himself. I have not the courage to wound him—perhaps to embitter his whole life. No, although conscience, duty, religion command it, I have not the courage." La Vallière turned aside and hid her face.
Madame de Montespan fell into a deep muse. Again an expression of cruel determination passed over her fair young face, and she gave La Vallière a glance in which malice, anger, and contempt were mingled. La Vallière, absorbed in her own sorrow, did not perceive it.
"How I grieve for you, dear friend," Madame de Montespan continued, speaking in her sweetest voice. "How I respect your scruples. Are you sure," added she, carefully noting the effect of her words, "that the King would really suffer from your absence as keenly as you imagine!"
"I have never dared broach the subject," answered La Vallière, looking up. "My remorse I cannot hide. He knows I suffer, he sees I am ill. But I would not for worlds openly acknowledge that I wish to forsake him."