“Well, be it so!” said she.  “Perhaps, when all is considered, you are right.  In the long run, a man knows more about politics than a woman, particularly such as, like you, Monsieur Bonacieux, have conversed with the cardinal.  And yet it is very hard,” added she, “that a man upon whose affection I thought I might depend, treats me thus unkindly and will not comply with any of my fancies.”

“That is because your fancies go too far,” replied the triumphant Bonacieux, “and I mistrust them.”

“Well, I will give it up, then,” said the young woman, sighing.  “It is well as it is; say no more about it.”

“At least you should tell me what I should have to do in London,” replied Bonacieux, who remembered a little too late that Rochefort had desired him to endeavor to obtain his wife’s secrets.

“It is of no use for you to know anything about it,” said the young woman, whom an instinctive mistrust now impelled to draw back.  “It was about one of those purchases that interest women—­ a purchase by which much might have been gained.”

But the more the young woman excused herself, the more important Bonacieux thought the secret which she declined to confide to him.  He resolved then to hasten immediately to the residence of the Comte de Rochefort, and tell him that the queen was seeking for a messenger to send to London.

“Pardon me for quitting you, my dear Madame Bonacieux,” said he; “but, not knowing you would come to see me, I had made an engagement with a friend.  I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon as I have concluded my business with that friend, as it is growing late, I will come back and reconduct you to the Louvre.”

“Thank you, monsieur, you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever,” replied Mme. Bonacieux.  “I shall return very safely to the Louvre all alone.”

“As you please, Madame Bonacieux,” said the ex-mercer.  “Shall I see you again soon?”

“Next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, as they must necessarily be much deranged.”

“Very well; I shall expect you.  You are not angry with me?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Till then, then?”

“Till then.”

Bonacieux kissed his wife’s hand, and set off at a quick pace.

“Well,” said Mme. Bonacieux, when her husband had shut the street door and she found herself alone; “that imbecile lacked but one thing to become a cardinalist.  And I, who have answered for him to the queen—­I, who have promised my poor mistress—­ah, my God, my God!  She will take me for one of those wretches with whom the palace swarms and who are placed about her as spies!  Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, I never did love you much, but now it is worse than ever.  I hate you, and on my word you shall pay for this!”