"Yes, mademoiselle."
"And it was to join him that you came hither, I will warrant."
"That is true, mademoiselle."
"See what a power of divination I possess! But what does your lover do? Is he not free? Are you not able to marry?"
Miretta lowered her eyes, her bosom heaved painfully, the pallor of deadly alarm overspread her brow.
"Well! I see that I make you unhappy!" continued Valentine; "let us say no more about it. But still, you do see your lover sometimes, and then you are very happy. Oh! when that happens, I can detect it by your face; you are no longer the same girl that you were the day before; you smile and are almost gay. Because, as I believe it is as difficult to conceal one's happiness as one's suffering.—For my part, I have no love for the man they would like me to marry; no, indeed! I have not the slightest love for him, although he is a very well-favored young man."
"Ah! do you know him, mademoiselle?"
"Very little; I have seen him once or twice in society. He is the son of that old nobleman who was here last night—that tall, thin man with a severe expression, dressed all in black, in the style of the time of Henri IV, with a ruff that concealed his chin—the Marquis de Marvejols, in fact."
"The Marquis de Marvejols! Is it his son whom you are expected to marry, mademoiselle?"
"To be sure! why that exclamation?"