“What an exquisite creature she is!” she was saying.  “How graceful!  On her lips the utterances of treachery sound like witticism; an act of infidelity seems the prompting of reason, a sacrifice to propriety; while she is never reckless, she is always lovable; she is seldom tender and never sincere; amorous by nature, prudish on principle; sprightly, prudent, dexterous though utterly thoughtless, varied as Proteus in her moods, but charming as the Graces in her manner; she attracts but she eludes.  What a number of parts I have seen her play! Entre nous, what a number of dupes hang round her!  What fun she has made of the baron, what a life she has led the marquis!  When she took you, it was merely for the purpose of throwing the two rivals off the scent; they were on the point of a rupture; for she had played with them too long, and they had had time to see through her.  But she brought you on the scene.  Their attention was called to you, she led them to redouble their pursuit, she was in despair over you, she pitied you, she consoled you—­ Ah! how happy is a clever woman when in such a game as this she professes to stake nothing of her own!  But yet, is this true happiness?”

This last phrase, accompanied by a significant sigh, was a master-stroke.  I felt as if a bandage had fallen from my eyes, without seeing who had put it there.  My mistress appeared to me the falsest of women, and I believed that I held now the only sensible creature in the world.  Then I sighed without knowing why.  She seemed grieved at having given me pain and at having in her excitement drawn a picture, the truth of which might be open to suspicion, since it was the work of a woman.  I do not know how I answered; for without realizing the drift of all I heard, I set out with her on the high road of sentiment, and we mounted to such lofty heights of feeling that it was impossible to guess what would be the end of our journey.  It was fortunate that we also took the path towards a pavilion which she pointed out to me at the end of the terrace, a pavilion, the witness of many sweet moments.  She described to me the furnishing of it.  What a pity that she had not the key!  As she spoke we reached the pavilion and found that it was open.  The clearness of the moonlight outside did not penetrate, but darkness has many charms.  We trembled as we went in.  It was a sanctuary.  Might it not be the sanctuary of love?  We drew near a sofa and sat down, and there we remained a moment listening to our heart-beats.  The last ray of the moon carried away the last scruple.  The hand which repelled me felt my heart beat.  She struggled to get away, but fell back overcome with tenderness.  We talked together through that silence in the language of thought.  Nothing is more rapturous than these mute conversations.  Madame de T----- took refuge in my arms, hid her head in my bosom, sighed and then grew calm under my caresses.  She grew melancholy, she was consoled, and she asked of love all that love had robbed her of.  The sound of the river broke the silence of night with a gentle murmur, which seemed in harmony with the beating of our hearts.  Such was the darkness of the place it was scarcely possible to discern objects; but through the transparent crepe of a fair summer’s night, the queen of that lovely place seemed to me adorable.