“No, monseigneur, no!”

“But I do not wish you to wait for me, Pelisson,” replied Fouquet, sincerely courteous.

“The more reason I should, monseigneur; knowing that you are keeping me waiting, you will, perhaps, stay a shorter time.  Take care!  You see there is a carriage in the courtyard:  she has some one with her.”  Fouquet leaned towards the steps of the carriage.  “One word more,” cried Pelisson; “do not go to this lady till you have been to the concierge, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Eh! five minutes, Pelisson,” replied Fouquet, alighting at the steps of the hotel, leaving Pelisson in the carriage, in a very ill-humor.  Fouquet ran upstairs, told his name to the footman, which excited an eagerness and a respect that showed the habit the mistress of the house had of honoring that name in her family.  “Monsieur le surintendant,” cried the marquise, advancing, very pale, to meet him; “what an honor! what an unexpected pleasure!” said she.  Then, in a low voice, “Take care!” added the marquise, “Marguerite Vanel is here!”

“Madame,” replied Fouquet, rather agitated, “I came on business.  One single word, and quickly, if you please!” And he entered the salon.  Madame Vanel had risen, paler, more livid, than Envy herself.  Fouquet in vain addressed her, with the most agreeable, most pacific salutation; she only replied by a terrible glance darted at the marquise and Fouquet.  This keen glance of a jealous woman is a stiletto which pierces every cuirass; Marguerite Vanel plunged it straight into the hearts of the two confidants.  She made a courtesy to her friend, a more profound one to Fouquet, and took leave, under pretense of having a number of visits to make, without the marquise trying to prevent her, or Fouquet, a prey to anxiety, thinking further about her.  She was scarcely out of the room, and Fouquet left alone with the marquise, before he threw himself on his knees, without saying a word.  “I expected you,” said the marquise, with a tender sigh.

“Oh! no,” cried he, “or you would have sent away that woman.”

“She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had no expectation she would come this evening.”

“You love me just a little, then, marquise?”

“That is not the question now; it is of your danger; how are your affairs going on?”

“I am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the Palais.”

“How will you do that?”

“By buying and bribing the governor.”

“He is a friend of mine; can I assist you, without injuring you?”

“Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service; but how can you be employed without your being compromised?  Now, never shall my life, my power, or even my liberty, be purchased at the expense of a single tear from your eyes, or of one frown of pain upon your brow.”

“Monseigneur, no more such words, they bewilder me; I have been culpable in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what I was doing.  I love you in reality, as a tender friend; and as a friend, I am grateful for your delicate attentions — but, alas! — alas! you will never find a mistress in me.”