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: