This black and malignant epistle was couched in the following terms:
"... You have been grossly deceived the other day; your wife, being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of imaginary beneficence; the real purpose of her visit to the Rue du Temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage, who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated Rue du Temple,—this illustrious individual being known only at his lodging under the simple name of Rodolph. Should you doubt these facts, which may probably appear to you too improbable to deserve credit, go to No. 17 Rue du Temple, and make due inquiries; obtain a description of the face and figure of the august personage alluded to; and you will be compelled to own yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife. Despise not this advice, if you would not have the world believe you carry your devotion to your prince rather too far."
This infamous concoction was put into the post by Sarah herself, about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her interview with the notary.
On this same day, after having given renewed directions to M. de Graün to expedite the arrival of Cecily in Paris by every means in his power, Rodolph prepared to pass the evening with the Ambassadress of ——, and on his return to call on Madame d'Harville, for the purpose of informing her he had found a charitable intrigue worthy even of her coöperation.
We shall now conduct our readers to the hôtel of Madame d'Harville. The following dialogue will abundantly prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of Madame d'Harville had already determined to practise the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by Rodolph. The marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner-table, and the scene we are about to describe took place in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. The features of Clémence wore an expression of kindness almost amounting to tenderness, and even M. d'Harville appeared less sad and dejected than usual. It only remains to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor.
"What are your arrangements for this evening?" inquired M. d'Harville, almost mechanically, of his wife.
"I have no intention of going out. And what are your own plans?"
"I hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. "I feel more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and I shall pass my evening, as I have passed many others, alone."
"Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out?"
M. d'Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to comprehend her. "I am aware," said he, "that you mentioned your intention to pass this evening at home; still, I—"