"Impossible!"
"Why so, monseigneur?"
"Because I have in my heart a love which will end only with my life."
"So I perceive," replied she, ironically; "and it is to arrive more quickly at this result that you persist in returning to the park; for most a.s.suredly, if you do, your love and your life will end together."
"Oh, countess, how fearful you are--you who were so brave yesterday!"
"I am always brave when there is no danger."
"But I have the bravery of my race, and am happier in the presence of danger."
"But permit me to tell you----"
"No, countess, the die is cast. Death, if it comes; but first, love. I shall return to Versailles."
"Alone, then."
"You abandon me?"
"And not I alone."
"She will come?"
"You deceive yourself; she will not come."
"Is that what you were sent to tell me?"
"It is what I have been preparing you for."
"She will see me no more?"
"Never; and it is I who have counseled it."
"Madame, do not plunge the knife into my heart!" cried he, in a doleful voice.
"It would be much more cruel, monseigneur, to let two foolish people destroy themselves for want of a little good advice."
"Countess, I would rather die."
"As regards yourself, that is easy; but, subject, you dare not dethrone your queen; man, you will not destroy a woman."
"But confess that you do not come in her name, that she does not throw me off."
"I speak in her name."
"It is only a delay she asks?"
"Take it as you wish; but obey her orders."
"The park is not the only place of meeting. There are a hundred safer spots--the queen can come to you, for instance."
"Monseigneur, not a word more. The weight of your secret is too much for me, and I believe her capable, in a fit of remorse, of confessing all to the king."
"Good G.o.d! impossible."
"If you saw her, you would pity her."
"What can I do then?"
"Insure your safety by your silence."
"But she will think I have forgotten her, and accuse me of being a coward."
"To save her."
"Can a woman forgive him who abandons her?"
"Do not judge her like others."
"I believe her great and strong. I love her for her courage and her n.o.ble heart. She may count on me, as I do on her. Once more I will see her, lay bare my heart to her; and whatever she then commands, I will sacredly obey."
Jeanne rose. "Go, then," said she, "but go alone. I have thrown the key of the park into the river. You can go to Versailles--I shall go to Switzerland or Holland. The further off I am when the sh.e.l.l bursts the better."
"Countess, you abandon me. With whom shall I talk of her?"
"Oh! you have the park and the echoes. You can teach them her name!"
"Countess, pity me; I am in despair."
"Well, but do not act in so childish and dangerous a manner. If you love her so much, guard her name, and if you are not totally without grat.i.tude, do not involve in your own ruin those who have served you through friendship. Swear to me not to attempt to see or speak to her for a fortnight, and I will remain, and may yet be of service to you.
But if you decide to brave all, I shall leave at once, and you must extricate yourself as you can."
"It is dreadful," murmured the cardinal; "the fall from so much happiness is overwhelming. I shall die of it."
"Suffering is always the consequence of love. Come, monseigneur, decide.
Am I to remain here, or start for Lausanne?"
"Remain, countess."
"You swear to obey me."
"On the faith of a Rohan."
"Good. Well, then, I forbid interviews, but not letters."
"Really! I may write?"