walking in the Tuileries that morning, that the silly story
was set down to chance, which takes all that is offered. And so,
in spite of the fact that the Duchess's carriage had waited before
Montriveau's door, her character became as clear and as spotless as
Membrino's sword after Sancho had polished it up.

But, at two o'clock, M. de Ronquerolles passed Montriveau in a deserted
alley, and said with a smile, "She is coming on, is your Duchess. Go on,
keep it up!" he added, and gave a significant cut of the riding whip to
his mare, who sped off like a bullet down the avenue.

Two days after the fruitless scandal, Mme de Langeais wrote to M. de
Montriveau. That letter, like the preceding ones, remained unanswered.
This time she took her own measures, and bribed M. de Montriveau's man,
Auguste. And so at eight o'clock that evening she was introduced into
Armand's apartment. It was not the room in which that secret scene had
passed; it was entirely different. The Duchess was told that the General
would not be at home that night. Had he two houses? The man would give
no answer. Mme de Langeais had bought the key of the room, but not the
man's whole loyalty.

When she was left alone she saw her fourteen letters lying on an
old-fashioned stand, all of them uncreased and unopened. He had not
read them. She sank into an easy-chair, and for a while she lost
consciousness. When she came to herself, Auguste was holding vinegar for
her to inhale.

"A carriage; quick!" she ordered.

The carriage came. She hastened downstairs with convulsive speed, and
left orders that no one was to be admitted. For twenty-four hours she
lay in bed, and would have no one near her but her woman, who brought
her a cup of orange-flower water from time to time. Suzette heard
her mistress moan once or twice, and caught a glimpse of tears in the
brilliant eyes, now circled with dark shadows.

The next day, amid despairing tears, Mme de Langeais took her
resolution. Her man of business came for an interview, and no doubt
received instructions of some kind. Afterwards she sent for the
Vidame de Pamiers; and while she waited, she wrote a letter to M.
de Montriveau. The Vidame punctually came towards two o'clock that
afternoon, to find his young cousin looking white and worn, but
resigned; never had her divine loveliness been more poetic than now in
the languor of her agony.

"You owe this assignation to your eighty-four years, dear cousin," she
said