there is no merit in yielding oneself to bliss that is foreseen

and ardently desired. Alas, my friend, I can say this now; these
thoughts came to me when I played with you; and you seemed to me

so great even then that I would not have you owe the gift to
pity----What is this that I have written?

"I have taken back all my letters; I am flinging them one by one
on the fire; they are burning. You will never know what they

confessed--all the love and the passion and the madness----
"I will say no more, Armand; I will stop. I will not say

another word of my feelings. If my prayers have not echoed from
my soul through yours, I also, woman that I am, decline to owe

your love to your pity. It is my wish to be loved, because you
cannot choose but love me, or else to be left without mercy. If

you refuse to read this letter, it shall be burnt. If, after you
have read it, you do not come to me within three hours, to be

henceforth forever my husband, the one man in the world for me;
then I shall never blush to know that this letter is in your

hands, the pride of my despair will protect my memory from all
insult, and my end shall be worthy of my love. When you see me

no more on earth, albeit I shall still be alive, you yourself
will not think without a shudder of the woman who, in three

hours' time, will live only to overwhelm you with her tenderness;
a woman consumed by a hopeless love, and faithful--not to

memories of past joys--but to a love that was slighted.
"The Duchesse de la Valliere wept for lost happiness and

vanished power; but the Duchesse de Langeais will be happy that
she may weep and be a power for you still. Yes, you will regret

me. I see clearly that I was not of this world, and I thank you
for making it clear to me.

"Farewell; you will never touch MY axe. Yours was the
executioner's axe, mine is God's; yours kills, mine saves. Your

love was but mortal, it could not enduredisdain or ridicule;
mine can endure all things without growing weaker, it will last

eternally. Ah! I feel a sombre joy in crushing you that believe
yourself so great; in humbling you with the calm, indulgent smile

of one of the least among the angels that lie at the feet of God,
for to them is given the right and the power to protect and watch

over men in His name. You have but felt fleeting desires, while
the poor nun will shed the light of her ceaseless and ardent

prayer about you, she will shelter you all your life long beneath
the wings of a love that has nothing of earth in it.

"I have a presentiment of your answer; our trysting place shall
be--in heaven. Strength and weakness can both enter there, dear

Armand; the strong and the weak are bound to suffer. This
thought soothes the anguish of my final ordeal. So calm am I

that I should fear that I had ceased to love you if I were not
about to leave the world for your sake.

"ANTOINETTE."
"Dear Vidame," said the Duchess as they reached Montriveau's

house, "do me the kindness to ask at the door whether he is at
home." The Vidame, obedient after the manner of the eighteenth

century to a woman's wish, got out, and came back to bring his
cousin an affirmative answer that sent a shudder through her.

She grasped his hand tightly in hers, suffered him to kiss her on
either cheek, and begged him to go at once. He must not watch

her movements nor try to protect her. "But the people passing
in the street," he objected.

"No one can fail in respect to me," she said. It was the last
word spoken by the Duchess and the woman of fashion.

The Vidame went. Mme de Langeais wrapped herself about in her
cloak, and stood on the doorstep until the clocks struck eight.

The last stroke died away. The unhappy woman waited ten, fifteen
minutes; to the last she tried to see a fresh humiliation in the

delay, then her faith ebbed. She turned to leave the fatal
threshold.

"Oh, God!" the cry broke from her in spite of herself; it was
the first word spoken by the Carmelite.

Montriveau and some of his friends were talking together. He
tried to hasten them to a conclusion, but his clock was slow, and

by the time he started out for the Hotel de Langeais the Duchess
was hurrying on foot through the streets of Paris, goaded by the

dull rage in her heart. She reached the Boulevard d'Enfer, and
looked out for the last time through falling tears on the noisy,

smoky city that lay below in a red mist, lighted up by its own
lamps. Then she hailed a cab, and drove away, never to return.

When the Marquis de Montriveau reached the Hotel de Langeais, and
found no trace of his mistress, he thought that he had been

duped. He hurried away at once to the Vidame, and found that
worthy gentleman in the act of slipping on his flowered

dressing-gown, thinking the while of his fair cousin's happiness.
Montriveau gave him one of the terrific glances that produced the

effect of an electric shock on men and women alike.
"Is it possible that you have lent yourself to some cruel hoax,

monsieur?" Montriveau exclaimed. "I have just come from Mme de
Langeais's house; the servants say that she is out."

"Then a great misfortune has happened, no doubt," returned the
Vidame, "and through your fault. I left the Duchess at your

door----"
"When?"

"At a quarter to eight."
"Good evening," returned Montriveau, and he hurried home to ask

the porter whether he had seen a lady standing on the doorstep
that evening.

"Yes, my Lord Marquis, a handsome woman, who seemed very much
put out. She was crying like a Magdalen, but she never made a

sound, and stood as upright as a post. Then at last she went,
and my wife and I that were watching her while she could not see

us, heard her say, `Oh, God!' so that it went to our hearts,
asking your pardon, to hear her say it."

Montriveau, in spite of all his firmness, turned pale at those
few words. He wrote a few lines to Ronquerolles, sent off the

message at once, and went up to his rooms. Ronquerolles came
just about midnight.

Armand gave him the Duchess's letter to read.
"Well?" asked Ronquerolles.

"She was here at my door at eight o'clock; at a quarter-past
eight she had gone. I have lost her, and I love her. Oh! if my

life were my own, I could blow my brains out."
"Pooh, pooh! Keep cool," said Ronquerolles. "Duchesses do

not fly off like wagtails. She cannot travel faster than three
leagues an hour, and tomorrow we will ride six.--Confound it!

Mme de Langeais is no ordinary woman," he continued. "Tomorrow
we will all of us mount and ride. The police will put us on her

track during the day. She must have a carriage; angels of that
sort have no wings. We shall find her whether she is on the road

or hidden in Paris. There is the semaphore. We can stop her.
You shall be happy. But, my dear fellow, you have made a

blunder, of which men of your energy are very often guilty. They
judge others by themselves, and do not know the point when human

nature gives way if you strain the cords too tightly. Why did
you not say a word to me sooner? I would have told you to be

punctual. Good-bye till tomorrow," he added, as Montriveau said
nothing. "Sleep if you can," he added, with a grasp of the

hand.
But the greatest resources which society has ever placed at the

disposal of statesmen, kings, ministers, bankers, or any human
power, in fact, were all exhausted in vain. Neither Montriveau

nor his friends could find any trace of the Duchess. It was