“It does not offend you, Marie?”

“Offend me, dearest Victorine! how should I be offended with anything you could say?”

“But would it offend you to see Henri Larochejaquelin at your feet.”

“Is there any girl in France who would have a right to be offended at seeing him there, if he came with a tale of true love?”

“You may be sure at least that Henri will never sully his lips with false vows,” said Madame de Lescure.

“He has at any rate made no vows to me, Victorine, nor given me cause to suppose he ever will.”

“But should he do so, Marie?”

“Now you ask me questions which you know it only becomes me to answer in one way.”

“Why, Marie, I declare you and I have changed characters this morning.  You are all sobriety when I make a poor attempt at joking with you.  Were I, as usual, talking of my sober cares, you would be as giddy as a girl of fifteen, and talk to me of twenty lovers that you have.”

“It is very different talking of twenty lovers, and of one.”

“Then you own there is one lover in the ease—­eh, Marie?”

“Now you are crafty, Victorine, and try to trap me into confessions.  You know I have no confession to make, or I should have made it long ago to you.”

“I know, Marie, that Larochejaquelin is sad when you are not by, and that he has a word for no one else when you are present; but I know not whether that means love.  I know also that your bright eyes brighten when they rest on him, and that your heart beats somewhat faster at the mention of his name; but I know not whether that means love.”

“Victorine,” said Marie, turning round upon her companion her beautiful face, on which two lustrous tears were shining, “Victorine, you are treating your poor sister unfairly.  I know not that my eyes are turned oftener on him than on others; and when my heart would play the rebel within me, I always try to check it.”

“Nay, Marie, dear Marie, I did but joke!  You do not think I would accuse you of an unmaidenly partiality; if it grieves you we will not mention Henri’s name again, though I remember when you did not spare me so easily; when Charles’ name was always in my ear, when you swore that every dress I wore was his choice, that every flower I plucked was for his eye; and there had been no more then between Charles and me, than there has now between you and Henri; and yet you see what has become of it.  You thought yourself wonderfully clever then, Marie; you were quite a prophetess then.  Why should not I now foresee a little.  Why should not I also be clever?”

“Well, Victorine, time will shew,” said Marie, smiling through her tears; “but do not teach me to love him too dearly, till I know whether he will value my love.  If he would prize it, I fear he might have it for the asking for; but I will not throw it at his feet, that he should keep it loosely for awhile, and then scorn it, and lay it by.”