"There they go, these doomed ones!" sobbed madame, with a great gush of tears. "Farewell, farewell, poor devoted Griselda."
"Be content, dear madame, I do not forsake thee—take comfort of thy slave!"
"Oh, chevalier, is there ever a man on this stale old globe who can show a heart like faithful Margaret's?"
"Mon Dieu! I know such a man."
"I do not. I have yet to meet the man who is content to love without one hope of recompense; who counts it joy to lay his all at the feet of the one who has scorned him—who rushes with a willing soul to brave death in the service of his enemy."
"Madame is skeptical, madame is cruel. Ah—could she read the heart of Calembours——"
"Ha, ha, ha!" mocked madame, wildly, "perhaps I can. Perhaps I have met with such before, and sifting it well, found it the heart of a fiend. But enough, 'tis a long time since I have believed in love, and faithfulness, and such mawkish sentimentality; now, do you know what I believe in, monsieur?"
"Pardieu, no—cruel that thou art."
"Ambition is my god," breathed madame, tauntingly. "I will climb to the highest step of the social ladder, and there I'll feel content."
The chevalier grew pale with envy.