"You are still then as ambitious as ever?"
"More than ever, since I have been in love with you."
"Is that necessary?"
"Beyond a doubt. Ambition—what is it but honours, wealth, the envious looks of impotent rivals, the admiration of the crowd, the favour of monarchs?... And is not one's love unanswerably and most triumphantly proved, in laying all this at the feet of the woman whom one adores?"
"You may be right."
"I may be right, Marchioness! Listen to me, my fair lady-love."
"I am all attention, sir."
"Between us, who are well-born, and consort not with plebeians, that vulgar and sentimental sort of love, which is painted by those who write books for your mantuamakers and chambermaids, would be in exceedingly bad taste. It would be but slighting love and making no account of its enjoyments, were we to go and bury it in some obscure corner of the Provinces, or of Paris—we, who belong to Versailles—living away there with it, in monotonous solitude and unchanging contemplation!"
"Ah!" said the Marchioness, "you think so?"
"Tell me, rather, of fêtes that dazzle one with lights, with noise, with smiles, with wit, through which one glides intoxicated, with the fair conquest in triumph on one's arm ... why hide one's happiness, in place of parading it? The jealousy of the world does but increase, and cannot diminish it. My uncle, the Cardinal, stands well at court. He has the King's ear, and better still, the Countess's. He will, ere long, procure me one of the Northern embassies. Cannot you fancy yourself Madame the Ambassadress, treading the platform of a drawing-room, as royalty with royalty, with the highest nobility of a kingdom—having the men at your feet, and the women on lower seats around you, whilst you yourself are occupant of a throne, and wield a sceptre?"