“I shall, however, write again to her father.  I will not have my sister’s daughter wasting her youth in a convent, while waiting for a tardy suitor.”

Valerie smiled again, and then arose to take her leave.

Lady C. kissed her affectionately, and promised soon to visit her at the Hotel de la Motte.

“But—­how long will you remain there?” inquired her ladyship.

“I do not know.  Until some business connected with my father’s will shall be arranged, I think.  We are there on sufferance only.  My cousin, Louis, the present baron, wrote from Algiers, very kindly asking us to occupy the Hotel de la Motte at any time when business or pleasure should call us to Paris.  The house was the home of my childhood, and I prefer to live in it as long as I may.  The duke, though he would rather live at the ‘Trois Freres,’ yields to my whim, and so we occupy the Hotel de la Motte, but I do not know for how long a time.”

“Until you leave Paris, I presume?”

“Yes, probably,” answered Valerie, as with another kiss, she took leave of her kind friend.

“Shall I ever see her sweet face, hear her sweet voice again?” murmured the young duchess, as she passed out to her carriage.

“You posted my letter?” she inquired of the footman who opened the carriage-door.

“Yes, your grace.”

“That will do.  Home.”

The footman repeated the order to the coachman, who drove back to the Hotel de la Motte.

As Valerie entered her morning-room after laying off her bonnet and wrappings, she found the Duke of Hereward there, reading the papers.

He arose and placed a chair for her, saying kindly: 

“I hope your drive has done you good, dear; if it has not been so long as to fatigue you.”

“I have only been to the Hotel Borghese to call on Lady C.,” replied Valerie, sinking into the chair and leaning back.

“Now that I look well at you, I see that you are tired.  A very little exertion seems to fatigue you now, Valerie.  I do not understand your condition.  It makes me anxious.  I have asked Velpeau to call and see you.  He will look in this afternoon.”

“Thanks, you are very kind—­too kind to me, as fretful and miserable as I am,” replied Valerie, with a momentary compunction—­only a momentary one, for the deep fear, horror and despair which had seized her soul left her little sensibility to comparative trifles.

“My poor child,” said the duke, looking compassionately on her pale, worn face, “do you not know that I can make all allowance for you?  You are suffering very much.  I hope Velpeau will be able to do something for you.  You know he stands at the head of the medical profession in Paris, which is as much as to say, in the world.”

“Yes, I know,” said Valerie, indifferently.  Then, with sudden earnestness, she exclaimed:  “I wish you would do something for me.”