Maximilien's
apparent indifference, and a woman's smile, had wrung from her one of
those sarcasms whose treacherous zest always let her astray.
"Mademoiselle," said Longueville, in a low voice, under cover of the
noise made by the ladies as they rose from the table, "no one will
ever more ardently desire your happiness than I; permit me to assure
you of this, as I am taking leave of you. I am starting for Italy in a
few days."
"With a Duchess, no doubt?"
"No, but perhaps with a mortal blow."
"Is not that pure fancy?" asked Emilie, with an anxious glance.
"No," he replied. "There are wounds which never heal."
"You are not to go," said the girl, imperiously, and she smiled.
"I shall go," replied Maximilien, gravely.
"You will find me married on your return, I warn you," she said
coquettishly.
"I hope so."
"Impertinent wretch!" she exclaimed. "How cruel a revenge!"
A fortnight later Maximilien set out with his sister Clara for the
warm and poetic scenes of beautiful Italy, leaving Mademoiselle de
Fontaine a prey to the most vehement regret. The young Secretary to
the Embassy took up his brother's quarrel, and contrived to take
signal vengeance on Emilie's disdain by making known the occasion of
the lovers' separation. He repaid his fair partner with interest all
the sarcasm with which she had formerly attacked Maximilien, and often
made more than one Excellency smile by describing the fair foe of the
counting-house, the amazon who preached a crusade against bankers, the
young girl whose love had evaporated before a bale of muslin.
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