I had written this letter yesterday, under your inspiration, and to ward off the imaginary dangers you feared.  Rely upon it, my dear Valentine, M. de Monbert knows that he has acted culpably towards me; he might, perhaps, endeavor to prevent my marriage, but when he knows I am no longer free, he will be compelled to resign himself to my loss; don’t be alarmed, I know of two beautiful creatures whom he will allow to console him.  A man really unhappy would not have confided the story of his disdained love to all his friends, valets and the detectives; he would not hand over to idle gossip a dear and sacred name; a man who has no respect for his love, does not love seriously; he deserves neither regard nor pity.  I will write to him myself to-morrow, if you desire it; but as to a quarrel, what does he claim?  I have never given him any rights; if he threatens to provoke my husband to a duel, I have only to say:  “Take for your seconds Messrs. Ernest and George de S., who were intoxicated with you at the Odeon,” and he will blush with shame, and instantly recognise how odious and ridiculous is his anger.

I left Raymond alone in my room reading this letter, and I returned to the saloon to weep bitterly.  I could not bear to see him displeased with me; I knew he would accuse me of being trifling and capricious—­the idea of having offended him pierced my heart with anguish.  I know not if the letter justified me in his eyes, whether he thought it honest and dignified, but as soon as he had finished reading it he called me:  “Irene,” he said, and I trembled with sweet emotion on hearing him, for the first time, utter my real name; I returned to the next room, he took my hand and continued:  “Pardon me for believing, for a moment, that you were capricious and trifling, and I forgive you for having made me act an odious part towards one of my friends.”

Then he told me in a tender voice that he understood my conduct, and that it was right; that when one is not sure of loving her intended, or of being loved by him, she has a right to test him, and that it was only honest and just.  Then he smilingly asked me if I did not wish to try him, and leave him a month or two to see if I was beloved by him.

“Oh! no,” I cried, “I believe in you.  I do not wish to leave you.  Oh! how can true lovers live apart from each other?  How can they be separated for a single day?”

I recalled what you told me when I abandoned M. de Monbert, and acknowledged that you were right when you said:  “Genuine love is confiding, it shuns doubt because it cannot endure it.”

This sad impression that he felt upon learning that Louise Guerin was Irene de Chateaudun, was the only cloud that passed over our happiness.  Soon joy returned to us lively and pure—­and we spoke of you tenderly; he was the poor wounded man that gave you so much uneasiness; he was the model husband you had chosen for me, and whom I refused with such proud scorn!