“Mademoiselle,” said Longueville, in a low voice, under cover of the noise made by the ladies as they rose from the table, “no one will ever more ardently desire your happiness than I; permit me to assure you of this, as I am taking leave of you. I am starting for Italy in a few days.”
“With a Duchess, no doubt?”
“No, but perhaps with a mortal blow.”
“Is not that pure fancy?” asked Emilie, with an anxious glance.
“No,” he replied. “There are wounds which never heal.”
“You are not to go,” said the girl, imperiously, and she smiled.
“I shall go,” replied Maximilien, gravely.
“You will find me married on your return, I warn you,” she said coquettishly.
“I hope so.”
“Impertinent wretch!” she exclaimed. “How cruel a revenge!”