“You are right, so far.  But the Duke of Hereward has saved me the trouble of taking the initiative step.  He has left me.  I shall never see him, more.”

“How!  What!” exclaimed de Volaski, starting up.

“The Duke of Hereward left for Algiers last night.  I shall not remain here to receive him when he returns.”

“You told him, then, and he has left you?  Good!”

“No, I have not told him; he knows nothing—­not even that he has left me forever.  Business of a financial nature connected with his duties as executor of my father’s estates, takes him to Algiers for a few weeks.  During his absence I shall make arrangements for leaving this house forever.”

“Valerie, where will you go?” he inquired, in a more softened tone.

“I do not know—­not with you that is certain.  You were quite right when you said that I could not live with either—­that a single life was the only possible one for me.  I feel that it is so, and I hope that it will be a short one.”

“Valerie, do not say so.  You are very young yet.  The duke is an elderly man; he will die and leave you free.”

“I shall not be free while EITHER of you live! nor can I build any hope in life on death!  Oh!  I have been cruelly wronged, and I am very miserable, but I am not selfish or wicked, Waldemar.”

“How soon do you propose to leave this house?”

“I do not know.  I only know that I must go before the duke’s return.”

“What should hinder your going at once?”

“I must make some provision for the miserable remnant of life left me.  I must collect and sell my jewels and my shawls and laces, and invest the money in some safe place, where it will bring me interest enough to live cheaply in some remote country neighborhood.  Wretched as I am, soon as I hope to die, I do not wish to be dependant on you, Waldemar.”

“No, nor do I wish anything but independence and honor for you, Valerie.  But you must let me assist you in realizing capital from your personal property, and in making other necessary arrangements for your removal.  You cannot do this for yourself.  You are more ignorant of the world than a child.  So you must let me see you safely through this trial.  You have no alternative, Valerie.  You have no one else to consult with but me, and you may confide in me, for I will endeavor to forget that I ever called you wife, and will treat you with the reverential tenderness due to a dear sister.  When I once have seen you safely lodged in a secure retreat, I will leave you there, never to intrude upon you again.”

“Thanks! thanks! that is the kindest course you could pursue toward me.”

“You accept all my service then?”

“Yes, on the condition that I shall seem to you only as a sister.  But, oh!  Waldemar! you, who are so kind and considerate now, how could you have ever written to me so cruelly—­calling me an unfaithful wife—­calling yourself a wronged husband?  I never was consciously unfaithful to any one in my life.  I never voluntarily wronged any creature since I was born.  How could you have written so cruelly, Waldemar?”