As soon as she found herself alone, Valerie arose, slipped on a dressing-gown, sat down to her writing-desk, and wrote the following note, as usual, without name, date, or signature:
"Come to me at noon to-morrow; or, if you cannot do so, write and fix your own hour, any time will suit me equally well, or rather, ill."
She put this note in an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to Monsieur Le Count de Volaski, Russian Embassy.
Then she rang for her maid, and sent her out to post the letter.
Valerie made an effort to dress for dinner that evening, and dined with the duke for the last time—yes, for the very last time in this world.
After the Duke had risen from the table and pressed a parting kiss upon her lips before leaving her to enter the carriage that was to take him to the railway station, she never saw his face again—nay more—though she honored and revered him, she never even wished or intended to see him again.
She witnessed his departure with tearful eyes, yet with a sense of infinite relief. One of them was gone! Oh, how she wished that the other would go also!
She loved neither of them. She had lost the power of loving. Her love, by her awful position, was frightened into its death-throes. All she desired to do, was to get away from them both, and like a haunted hare, or wounded bird, creep into some safe hiding-place to die in peace.
She retired early that evening, and, for the first time for several days, slept in peace.
The next day she arose, and, contrary to her custom in the morning, dressed herself to receive company.