e must have known his impotence. It was a dreadful thing to do."

"Yes, but you must forgive him for it."

She had cause for complaint, for marriage without enjoyment is a thorn
without roses. She was passionate, but her principles were stronger than
her passions, or else she would have sought for what she wanted
elsewhere. My impotent brother excused himself by saying that he loved
her so well that he thought cohabitation with her would restore the
missing faculty; he deceived himself and her at the same time. In time
she died, and he married another woman with the same idea, but this time
passion was stronger than virtue, and his new wife drove him away from
Paris. I shall say more of him in twenty years time.

At six o'clock the next morning the abbe went off in the diligence, and I
did not see him for six years. I spent the day with Madame d'Urfe, and I
agreed, outwardly, that young d'Aranda should return to Paris as a
postillion. I fixed our departure for the day after next.

The following day, after dining with Madame d'Urfe who continued to revel
in the joys of her regeneration, I paid a visit to the Corticelli in her
asylum. I found her sad and suffering, but content, and well pleased with
the gentleness of the surgeon and his wife, who told me they would effect
a radical cure. I gave her twelve louis, promising to send her twelve
more as soon as I had received a letter from her written at Bologna. She
promised she would write to me, but the poor unfortunate was never able
to keep her word, for she succumbed to the treatment, as the old surgeon
wrote to me, when I was at London. He asked what he should do with the
twelve louis which she had left to one Madame Laura, who was perhaps
known to me. I sent him her address, and the honest surgeon hastened to
fulfil the last wishes of the deceased.

All the persons who helped me in my magical operations with Madame d'Urfe
betrayed me, Marcoline excepted, and all save the fair Venetian died
miserably. Later on the reader will hear more of Possano and Costa.

The day before I left for London I supped with Madame du Rumain, who told
me that her voice was already beginning to return. She added a sage
reflection which pleased me highly.

"I should think," she observed, "that the careful living prescribed by
the cabala must have a good effect on my health."

"Most certainly," said I, "and if you continue to observe the rules you
will keep both your health and your voi