"You are not well to-day?" he asked, gently.
"Oh yes; perfectly. I am never ill. I scarcely saw you last night. What did you think of the presentations? Is not Mme. de Mailly lovely?"
The abbé shrugged. "Very pretty. Parvenu, however. I prefer Mme. d'Etioles; but you—before them all, Victorine."
A smile broke over her face, and, for a moment, transfigured it. "Ah, François, that is as you were. Lately, sometimes, I had thought you changed towards me."
He saw here an approaching opportunity for his difficult proposition. Rising, he drew another chair close to her, seated himself in it, and negligently took one of her hands into both of his. "Dear Victorine, I shall never change towards you," he said, in a low voice. "But there are some things—some things which you do not quite consider."
"What things? Tell me, François. Indeed, I will consider them. Only tell me all that is in your heart. I belong to you. You know that," she whispered.
De Bernis moved uneasily. Tell what was in his heart? He was wiser than that; but his way was not easy. "You know, little one, that I am not a powerful man—not an influential one. Yet I am ambitious. I have but a small place to keep. There is a great one which I wish to win. A—cardinal's hat, Victorine! That is my dream! You see, I am opening my heart to you."
"Ah, if I could make you a cardinal—if I could make you Pope, François! If I could make you the greatest man in the world!"
"You have made me the happiest," he answered, tenderly, touched a little by her unselfishness.
"Then, if that is true, François, what more can you desire? The beretta could do no more for you."