You will forgive my frivolity and my coquetry.

Nay, do not interrupt me.

I will forgive you for having said I was frivolous and a coquette, or something worse, perhaps; and you will renounce your idea of dying, and will preserve for your family, for the king, and for our sex, a cavalier whom every one esteems, and whom many hold dear." Madame pronounced this last word in such an accent of frankness, and even of tenderness, that poor De Guiche's heart felt almost bursting.
"Oh! Madame, Madame!" he stammered out.
"Nay, listen further," she continued.

"When you shall have renounced all thought of me forever, from necessity in the first place, and, next, because you will yield to my entreaty, then you will judge me more favorably, and I am convinced you will replace this love--forgive the frivolity of the expression--by a sincere friendship, which you will be ready to offer me, and which, I promise you, shall be cordially accepted." De Guiche, his forehead bedewed with perspiration, a feeling of death in his heart, and a trembling agitation through his whole frame, bit his lip, stamped his foot on the ground, and, in a word, devoured the bitterness of his grief.

"Madame," he said, "what you offer is impossible, and I cannot accept such conditions." "What!" said Madame, "do you refuse my friendship, then ?" "No, no! I do not need your friendship, Madame.