so pretending to have received some hurt, she went home.
Monsieur de Cleves came to the Louvre, and was surprised not to find his wife there; they told him of the accident that had befallen her, and he went immediately home to enquire after her; he found her in bed, and perceived her hurt was not considerable. When he had been some time with her, he found her so excessive melancholy that he was surprised at it: What ails you, madam? says he; you seem to have some other grief than that which you complain of.—I feel the most sensible grief I can ever experience, answered she; what use have you made of that extraordinary, or rather foolish confidence which I placed in you? Did not I deserve to have my secret kept? and though I had not deserved it, did not your own interest engage you to it? Should your curiosity to know a name it was not reasonable for me to tell you, have obliged you to make a confidante to assist you in the discovery, nothing but that curiosity could have made you guilty of so cruel an indiscretion; the consequences of it are as bad as they possibly can be. This adventure is known, and I have been told it by those who are not aware that I am principally concerned in it.—What do you say, madam? answered he; you accuse me of having told what passed between you and me, and you inform me that the thing is known; I do not go about to clear myself from this charge, you cannot think me guilty of it; without doubt you have applied to yourself what was told you of some other.—Ah! sir, replied she, the world has not an adventure like mine, there is not another woman capable of such a thing: the story I have heard could not have been invented by chance; nobody could imagine any like it; an action of this nature never entered any thoughts but mine. The queen-dauphin has just told me the story; she had it from the viscount de Chartres, and the viscount from the duke de Nemours.—The duke de Nemours! cried
