Do not let Cevennes, D'Herouville, or the vicomte
come near me alone."
"Gabrielle, in the old days you were not quite fair to me."
"I know it, Victor; pardon, pardon," pressing his hand. "I am very
unhappy over what I have done." As, indeed, she was.
"Do you love the Chevalier?" he asked, quietly.
"Love him?" The scorn which may be thrown into two words! "Love him,
Victor?" She laughed. "As I love the vicomte; as I love D'Herouville!
Victor, I am proud. Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes ground a
portrait of mine under his heel . . . . without so much as a glance at
it. Neither my vanity nor my pride will forgive that."
"He did not know. Had he but glanced at that miniature, he would have
sought you to the ends of the world. Gabrielle, Gabrielle! how could
he help it?"
"If you talk like that, Victor, you will make me cry. I am wretched.
Why did I leave France?"
"I am very curious to know," with a faint smile. "You were to become a
nun?"
"But the sight of those grim walls of the Ursulines!"
"Mademoiselle de Vaudemont intends to enter them."
"She is not frivolous, changeable, inconsistent, like me.
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