“Mademoiselle,” replied the young man, “your doubts justify mine.”
“Let us leave this room,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, catching sight of a corner of Madame du Gua’s gown, and rising. But the wish to reduce her rival to despair was too strong, and she made no further motion to go.
“Do you mean to drive me to hell?” cried the marquis, seizing her hand and pressing it violently.
“Did you not drive me to hell five days ago? are you not leaving me at this very moment uncertain whether your love is sincere or not?”
“But how do I know whether your revenge may not lead you to obtain my life to tarnish it, instead of killing me?”
“Ah! you do not love me! you think of yourself and not of me!” she said angrily, shedding a few tears.
The coquettish creature well knew the power of her eyes when moistened by tears.
“Well, then,” he cried, beside himself, “take my life, but dry those tears.”
“Oh, my love! my love!” she exclaimed in a stifled voice: “those are the words, the accents, the looks I have longed for, to allow me to prefer your happiness to mine. But,” she added, “I ask one more proof of your love, which you say is so great. I wish to stay here only so long as may be needed to show the company that you are mine. I will not even drink a glass of water in the house of a woman who has twice tried to kill me, who is now, perhaps, plotting mischief against us,” and she showed the marquis the floating corner of Madame du Gua’s drapery. Then she dried her eyes and put her lips to the ear of the young man, who quivered as he felt the caress of her warm breath. “See that everything is prepared for my departure,” she said; “you shall take me yourself to Fougeres and there only will I tell you if I love you. For the second time I trust you. Will you trust me a second time?”
“Ah, Marie, you have brought me to a point where I know not what I do. I am intoxicated by your words, your looks, by you—by you, and I am ready to obey you.”