Under these circumstances, my work—­imposed and voluntary alike—­was done; and the cheering influence of the dinner to which I sat down so awoke my mind to fresh agility that I found the task of disembarrassing myself of that old man of the sea—­the Cardinal’s Necklace—­no longer so hopeless as it had appeared in the hungry disconsolate hour before my meal.  Nay, I saw my way to performing, incidentally, a final service to Marie by creating in the mind of the duke such chagrin and anger as would, I hoped, disincline him from any pursuit of her.  If I could, by one stroke, restore him his diamonds and convince him, not of Marie’s virtue, but of her faithlessness, I trusted to be humbly instrumental in freeing her from his importunity, and of restoring the jewels to the duchess—­nay, of restoring to her also the undisturbed possession of her home and of the society of her husband.  At this latter prospect I told myself that I ought to feel very satisfied, and rather to my surprise found myself feeling not very dissatisfied; for most unquestionably the duchess had treated me villainously and had entirely failed to appreciate me.  My face still went hot to think of the glance she had given Marie Delhasse’s maladroit ambassador.

After these reflections and a bottle of Burgundy (I will not apportion the credit) I rose from the table humming a tune and started to go upstairs, conning my scheme in a contented mind.  As I passed through the hall the porter handed me a note, saying that a boy had left it and that there was no answer.  I opened and read it; it was very short and it ran thus: 

I wish never to see you again.  ELSA.

Now “Elsa” (and I believe that I have not mentioned the fact before—­an evidence, if any were needed, of my discretion) was the Christian name of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.  Picking up her dropped handkerchief as we rambled through the woods, I had seen the word delicately embroidered thereon, and I had not forgotten this chance information.  But why—­let those learned in the ways of women answer if they can—­why, first, did she write at all?  Why, secondly, did she tell me what had been entirely obvious from her demeanor?  Why, thirdly, did she choose to affix to the document which put an end to our friendship a name which that friendship had never progressed far enough to justify me in employing?  To none of these pertinent queries could I give a satisfactory reply.  Yet, somehow, that “Elsa” standing alone, shorn of all aristocratic trappings, had a strange attraction for me, and carried with it a pleasure that the uncomplimentary tenor of the rest of the document did not entirely obliterate.  “Elsa” wished never to see me again:  that was bad; but it was “Elsa” who was so wicked as to wish that:  that was good.  And by a curious freak of the mind it occurred to me as a hardship that I had not received so much as a note of one line from—­“Marie.”