"I repeat to you, madame, that important reasons of state oppose your request. It is impossible, altogether impossible."
"To be sure. I began, you know, by telling you that, monseigneur. As to the other thing, doubtless more impossible still, it simply concerns your consent to the marriage of a young man whom you have brought up."
"I!" cried the archduke, as if he could not believe his ears. "I, consent to the marriage of Count Frantz?"
"I do not know if he is a count, but I do know that his name is Frantz, since it was told me this morning by Mlle. Antonine Hubert, an angel of sweetness and beauty, whom I have loved from her childhood, and for whom I feel the tenderness of a mother and a sister."
"Madame, in three hours from this moment Count Frantz will have left Paris,--that is my reply."
"My G.o.d, monseigneur, that is admirable! All this is impossible, absolutely impossible. I say again, I admit that it is impossible!"
"Then, madame, why do you ask it?"
"Why, to obtain it, of course, monseigneur."
"What! notwithstanding all I have just said to you, you dare hope still?"
"I have that presumption, monseigneur."
"Such self-conceit--"
"Is very modest because I am not counting on my presence."
"On what, then, madame, do you rely?"
"On my absence, monseigneur," said Madeleine, rising.
"On your absence?"
"On your remembrance, if you prefer it."
"You are going," said the prince, unable to conceal his regret and vexation, "you are going so soon?"
"It is my last and only means of bringing you to an agreement."
"But really, madame----"
"Wait, monseigneur, do you wish me to tell you what is going to happen?"
"Let us hear, madame."
"I am going to leave you. At first you will be relieved of a great burden; my presence will no longer beset you with all sorts of temptations, which have their agony as well as their charm; you will banish me entirely from your thoughts. Unfortunately, by degrees, and in spite of yourself, I will return to occupy your thoughts; my mysterious, veiled figure will follow you everywhere; you will feel still more how little there is of the platonic in your inclination toward me, and these sentiments will become only more irritating and more obstinate.
To-morrow, the next day, perhaps, reflecting that, after all, I asked n.o.ble and generous actions only of you, you will bitterly regret my departure, but it will be too late, monseigneur."
"Too late?"
"Too late for you; not for me. I have taken it into my head that Colonel Pernetti will have his pardon, and that Count Frantz will marry Antonine. You understand, monseigneur, that it must be."
"In spite of me?"
"In spite of you."
"That would be rather difficult."
"So it is. But, let us see, monseigneur, to mention to you only facts which you already know; when one has known how to induce the cardinal legate to masquerade as a Hungarian hussar, when one has known how to create a great poet by the fire of a single glance, when one has known how to render amorous--and I humbly confess I use the expression in its earthly sense--a man like you, monseigneur, it is evident that one can accomplish something else also. You force, do you not, this poor Count Frantz to leave Paris? But the journey is long, and before he is out of France I have two days before me. A little delay in the pardon of Colonel Pernetti will be nothing for him, and, after all, his pardon does not depend on you alone, monseigneur; you cannot imagine to what point the rebound of influence may reach, and, thank G.o.d, here in France I have the means and the liberty to act. Is it war that you wish, monseigneur? Then let it be war. I depart, and I leave you already wounded,--that is to say, in love. Ah, my G.o.d! although I have a right to be proud of my success, it is not vanity which makes me insist upon the sudden impression I have made on you; because, to tell the truth, I have not employed the least coquetry in all this; almost always I have kept my veil down, and I am dressed as a veritable grandmother. Well, good-bye, monseigneur. At least do me the favour to accompany me to the door of your front parlour; war does not forbid courtesy."
The archduke was in unutterable uneasiness of mind. He felt that Madeleine was speaking the truth, for, already, at the bare thought of seeing her depart, perhaps for ever, he experienced a real sorrow; then, reflecting that if the charm, the singular and almost irresistible attraction of this woman could act so powerfully on him, who for so many reasons believed himself protected from such an influence, as well as from others which might induce him to submit to this control, he felt a sort of vague but bitter and angry jealousy; and while he could not make up his mind to grant the pardon asked of him, or to consent to the marriage of Frantz, he tried, like all undecided minds, to temporise, and said to the marquise, with emotion:
"Since I cannot see you again, at least prolong your visit a little."
"For what purpose, monseigneur?"
"It matters little to you if it makes me happy."
"It would not by any means make you happy, monseigneur, because you have neither the strength to let me depart nor to grant me what I ask of you."
"That is true," answered the prince, sighing, "for one request seems as impossible to me as the other."
"Ah, to-morrow, after my departure, how you will repent!"
The prince, after a long silence, said, with effort, yet with the most insinuating voice:
"Wait, my dear marquise, let us suppose that which is not supposable, that perhaps some day I may think of granting the pardon of Pernetti."
"A supposition? perhaps some day you will think of it? How vague and unsatisfactory all that is, monseigneur! Why not say, positively, "Admit that I grant you the pardon of Colonel Pernetti.""
"Very well, then, admit it."
"Good; you grant me this pardon, monseigneur, and you consent to the marriage of Frantz? I must have all or nothing."
"As to the marriage, never, never!"
"Do not say never, monseigneur. Do you know anything about it?"
"After all, a supposition binds me to nothing. Well, to make an end of it, let us admit that I grant all you desire. I will be at least certain of my recompense--"
"You ask it of me, monseigneur? Is not every generous action its own reward?"
"Granted. But there is one, in my eyes the most precious of all, and that one you alone can give."
"Oh, make no conditions, monseigneur."
"Why?"
"Frankly, monseigneur, can I pledge myself to anything? Does not all depend on you and not on me? You must please me, that concerns you."
"Oh! what a woman you are!" said the prince, with vexation. "But, really, shall I please you? Do you think I can please you?"
"My faith, monseigneur, I know nothing about it. You have done nothing so far but receive me with rudeness, I can truthfully say."