Part 56

The count gave her a glance and passed into the next room, from which he presently returned accompanied by the Gars.

“He is mine!” she thought, observing his face in the mirror.

She received the young leader with a displeased air and said nothing, but she smiled as she turned away from him; he was so superior to all about him that she was proud of being able to rule him; and obeying an instinct which sways all women more or less, she resolved to let him know the value of a few gracious words by making him pay dear for them. As soon as the quadrille was over, all the gentlemen who had been at La Vivetiere surrounded Mademoiselle de Verneuil, wishing by their flattering attentions to obtain her pardon for the mistake they had made; but he whom she longed to see at her feet did not approach the circle over which she now reigned a queen.

“He thinks I still love him,” she thought, “and does not wish to be confounded with mere flatterers.”

She refused to dance again. Then, as if the ball were given for her, she walked about on the arm of the Comte de Bauvan, to whom she was pleased to show some familiarity. The affair at La Vivetiere was by this time known to all present, thanks to Madame du Gua, and the lovers were the object of general attention. The marquis dared not again address his mistress; a sense of the wrong he had done her and the violence of his returning passion made her seem to him actually terrible. On her side Marie watched his apparently calm face while she seemed to be observing the ball.

“It is fearfully hot here,” she said to the count. “Take me to the other side where I can breathe; I am stifling here.”

And she motioned towards a small room where a few card-players were assembled. The marquis followed her. He ventured to hope she had left the crowd to receive him, and this supposed favor roused his passion to extreme violence; for his love had only increased through the resistance he had made to it during the last few days. Mademoiselle de Verneuil still tormented him; her eyes, so soft and velvety for the count, were hard and stern when, as if by accident, they met his. Montauran at last made a painful effort and said, in a muffled voice, “Will you never forgive me?”

“Love forgives nothing, or it forgives all,” she said, coldly. “But,” she added, noticing his joyful look, “it must be love.”

She took the count’s arm once more and moved forward into a small boudoir which adjoined the cardroom. The marquis followed her.

“Will you not hear me?” he said.

“One would really think, monsieur,” she replied, “that I had come here to meet you, and not to vindicate my own self-respect. If you do not cease this odious pursuit I shall leave the ballroom.”

“Ah!” he cried, recollecting one of the crazy actions of the last Duc de Lorraine, “let me speak to you so long as I can hold this live coal in my hand.”

He stooped to the hearth and picking up a brand held it tightly. Mademoiselle de Verneuil flushed, took her arm from that of the count, and looked at the marquis in amazement. The count softly withdrew, leaving them alone together. So crazy an action shook Marie’s heart, for there is nothing so persuasive in love as courageous folly.

“You only prove to me,” she said, trying to make him throw away the brand, “that you are willing to make me suffer cruelly. You are extreme in everything. On the word of a fool and the slander of a woman you suspected that one who had just saved your life was capable of betraying you.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “I have been very cruel to you; but nevertheless, forget it; I shall never forget it. Hear me. I have been shamefully deceived; but so many circumstances on that fatal day told against you--”

“And those circumstances were stronger than your love?”

He hesitated; she made a motion of contempt, and rose.

“Oh, Marie. I shall never cease to believe in you now.”

“Then throw that fire away. You are mad. Open your hand; I insist upon it.”

He took delight in still resisting the soft efforts of her fingers, but she succeeded in opening the hand she would fain have kissed.

“What good did that do you?” she said, as she tore her handkerchief and laid it on the burn, which the marquis covered with his glove.

Madame du Gua had stolen softly into the cardroom, watching the lovers with furtive eyes, but escaping theirs adroitly; it was, however, impossible for her to understand their conversation from their actions.

“If all that they said of me was true you must admit that I am avenged at this moment,” said Marie, with a look of malignity which startled the marquis.

“What feeling brought you here?” he asked.

“Do you suppose, my dear friend, that you can despise a woman like me with impunity? I came here for your sake and for my own,” she continued, after a pause, laying her hand on the hilt of rubies in her bosom and showing him the blade of her dagger.

“What does all that mean?” thought Madame du Gua.

“But,” she continued, “you still love me; at any rate, you desire me, and the folly you have just committed,” she added, taking his hand, “proves it to me. I will again be that I desired to be; and I return to Fougeres happy. Love absolves everything. You love me; I have regained the respect of the man who represents to me the whole world, and I can die.”

“Then you still love me?” said the marquis.