“Our marriage was a dismal failure—a miserable mistake. We hate one another heartily; therefore I’m willing to pay handsomely for the service you can render me. As we were married in London, you will have to return there and commence the suit,” she said.
Willoughby was still undecided, but at length the temptation proved too great.
“Well, I suppose I must,” he said, as he thrust the notes into his pocket after some further argument. “But won’t you give me more? To you a divorce is worth double.”
“No, not another sou. You can take it or leave it.”
He saw that to endeavour to obtain more would be futile.
“It’s agreed,” he said, at last. “I’ll sell you your liberty for twenty-five thousand francs.”
“Ah! I thought you wouldn’t refuse my munificent offer,” she observed, with a light laugh.
Rising and walking to a side-table whereon were writing materials, she penned the following lines in French, in a fine angular hand:—
“I, Valérie Willoughby, agree to pay Percy Willoughby the sum of 25,000 francs upon the day a decree of divorce is pronounced absolute against me.”
Blotting it hastily, she returned and handed it to him.