"What dress shall madame wear?"
"My—my writing desk! Bring it here to me," answered the lady, as she sank into a chair, and drew a little ivory stand before her.
"I wonder if madame indulges in absinthe in the morning?" was the secret thought of the discreet Mademoiselle Desiree, as she brought the elegant little malachite writing-desk, and placed it before her mistress.
Valerie opened it, took out a piece of note-paper and wrote:
"I cannot write much. I am stricken. I am dying. I hope you are right in what you say. Come here tomorrow at twelve, noon. I will give you the interview you seek."
This note was without date, address or signature, or any word to guide a strange reader to its true meaning. She put it into a sealed envelope, and directed it to Count de Volaski, Poste Restante.
Then she sat back in her chair, exhausted from the slight exertion.
The maid watched her mistress for a little while, and then said:
"Pardon, madame; but it is half-past twelve."
"Yes! I must dress," said Valerie rising.