"It is all you deserve, Monsieur le Duc. One would as soon think of taking the adoration of a butterfly seriously. One is a flower, butterflies come round, and when they find no honey, flit away elsewhere. You amuse yourself, so do I. Talk about hearts, I do not believe in such things."
"That is treason," the young lady who sat next to her said, laughing. "Now, I am just the other way; I am always in love, but then I never can tell whom I love best, that is my trouble. You are all so nice, messieurs, that it is impossible for me to say whom I love most."
The young men laughed.
"And you, Mademoiselle de Rohan, will you confess?"
"Oh, I am quite different," she said. "I quite know whom I love best, but just as I am quite sure about it, he does something disagreeable or stupid--all men are really disagreeable or stupid when you get to know them--and so then I try another, but it is always with the same result."
"You are all very cruel," the Duc de Carolan laughed. "And you, Mademoiselle de Pignerolles? But I know what you will say, you have never seen anyone worth loving."
Adele did not answer; but her laughing friends insisted that as they had confessed their inmost thoughts, she ought to do the same.
For a moment she looked serious, then she laughed, and again put on a demure air.
"Yes," said she, "I have had a grande passion, but it came to nothing."
A murmur of "Impossible!" ran round the circle.