“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply; I cannot
conceive your meaning.”
“Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, funds which somewhat
embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in land, and
am anxious to intrust it to some friend who will turn it to
account.”
“Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet.
“On the contrary, it is very pressing.”
“Very well, we will talk of that by and by.”
“By and by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the
marquise, pointing out the coffer to the superintendent, and
showing him, as she opened it, the bundles of notes and
heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had risen from his seat at the
same moment as Madame de Belliere, remained for a moment
plunged in thought; then suddenly starting back, he turned
pale, and sank down in his chair, concealing his face in his
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hands. “Madame, madame,” he murmured, “what opinion can you
have of me, when you make me such an offer?”
“Of you!” returned the marquise. “Tell me, rather, what you
yourself think of the step I have taken.”
“You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it
because you know me to be embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it,
for I am sure of it. Can I not read your heart?”
“If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my
heart I offer you?”
“I have guessed rightly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “In
truth, madame, I have never yet given you the right to
insult me in this manner.”
“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “what singular
delicacy of feeling! You tell me you love me; in the name of
that affection you wish me to sacrifice my reputation and my
honor, yet, when I offer you money which is my own, you
refuse me.”
“Madame, you are at liberty to preserve what you term your
reputation and your honor. Permit me to preserve mine. Leave
me to my ruin, leave me to sink beneath the weight of the
hatreds which surround me, beneath the faults I have
committed, beneath the load even, of my remorse, but, for
Heaven’s sake, madame, do not overwhelm me with this last
infliction.”
“A short time since, M. Fouquet, you were wanting in
judgment; now you are wanting in feeling.”
Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon his breast, heaving
with emotion, saying: “Overwhelm me, madame for I have
nothing to reply.”
“I offered you my friendship, M. Fouquet.”
“Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that.”
“And what I am now doing is the act of a friend.”
“No doubt it is.”
“And you reject this mark of my friendship?”
“I do reject it.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with
glistening eyes, “I now offer you my love.”
“Oh, madame,” exclaimed Fouquet.
“I have loved you for a long while past; women, like men,
have a false delicacy at times. For a long time past I have
loved you, but would not confess it. Well, then, you have
implored this love on your knees, and I have refused you; I
was blind, as you were a little while since; but as it was
my love that you sought, it is my love I now offer you.”
“Oh! madame, you overwhelm me beneath a load of happiness.”
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“Will you be happy, then, if I am yours — entirely?”
“It will be the supremest happiness for me.”
“Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a
prejudice, do you, for mine, sacrifice a scruple.”
“Do not tempt me.”
“Do not refuse me.”
“Think seriously of what you are proposing.”
“Fouquet, but one word. Let it be `No,’ and I open this
door,” and she pointed to the door which led into the
streets, “and you will never see me again. Let that word be
`Yes,’ and I am yours entirely.”
“Elsie! Elsie! But this coffer?”
“Contains my dowry.”
“It is your ruin,” exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the gold
and papers; “there must be a million here.”
“Yes, my jewels, for which I care no longer if you do not