very existence of my lover.  Still, I should never have dreamed of another marriage while I thought Waldemar lived; for I loved him with all my heart, and only wished to live until I should be of an age to contract a legal marriage with him, with whom I had already made a sacramental one.  But they told me that Waldemar was dead, slain by the hand of my father! and they bade me keep the secret of my first marriage, and to contract a second one with the Duke of Hereward!  Oh, if I had but known that Waldemar still lived, the tortures of the Inquisition should not have forced me into this second marriage!  But believing Waldemar to be dead, I suffered myself to be persecuted, worried and weakened into this marriage!  Oh! that I had been strong enough to bear the miseries of my home; to resist the forces brought to bear against me!  Oh, that I had been brave enough to tell the whole truth of my marriage with Waldemar de Volaski to the Duke of Hereward before he had committed his honor to my keeping by making me his wife!  That course would have saved me then with less of suffering than I have to bear now.  But I weakly permitted myself to be forced, with this secret on my conscience, into a marriage with the Duke of Hereward.  And now I dare not tell him the truth!  And now my first husband has come back and hates me for my inconstancy, and my second husband knows nothing about it!  Now to whom do I rightly belong!  To whom do I owe duty?  To Waldemar?  To the duke?  Who knows?  Not I!  One thing only is clear to me, that I must not live with either of them as a wife, henceforth!  Heaven forgive those who forced me into this position, for I fear that I never can do so!”

While these wild and bitter thoughts were passing through her tortured mind the clock struck one and startled her from her reverie.

“Ah! something has prevented his coming,” she said to herself, as she once more looked out of the window.  Then she relapsed into her sad reverie.

“I can never, never be happy in this world again—­never!  But if I only knew my duty I would do it.  I don’t know it.  I only know that I must go clear away from both these—­” She shuddered and left the sentence incomplete even in her thoughts.

Just then a footman entered with a note upon a little silver tray.

She took it languidly, but all her languor vanished as she recognized the handwriting of Waldemar de Volaski.

“Who brought this?” she inquired of the servant.

“Un garcon from the Hotel de Russe, madame.”

“Is he waiting for an answer?”

“Oui, madame.”

She had asked these questions partly to procrastinate the opening of the note she dreaded to read.  Now slowly and sadly she drew it from its envelope, unfolded and read: 

“HOTEL DE RUSSE, Tuesday Morning.

“UNFAITHFUL WIFE—­An engagement at the Tuileries, for the very hour you named, prevents me from meeting you at your appointed time.  Write by the messenger who brings this, and tell me when you can see me.