Once more, to
satisfy the bond, to give full reasons for what she was about to do, she
would open her soul to her husband, and then no more! In all she wrote
she kept but two things back, her grandfather's death--and one other.
These matters belonged to herself alone.

No, Philip d'Avranche, [she wrote], your message came too late. All
that you might have said and done should have been said and done
long ago, in that past which I believe in no more. I will not ask
you why you acted as you did towards me. Words can alter nothing
now. Once I thought you true, and this letter you send would have
me still believe so. Do you then think so ill of my intelligence?
In the light of the past it may be you have reason, for you know
that I once believed in you! Think of it--believed in you!

How bad a man are you! In spite of all your promises; in spite of
the surrender of honest heart and life to you; in spite of truth and
every call of honour, you denied me--dared to deny me, at the very
time you wrote this letter.

For the hopes and honours of this world, you set aside, first by
secrecy, and then by falsehood, the helpless girl to whom you once
swore undying love. You, who knew the open book of her heart, you
threw it in the dust. "Of course there is no wife?" the Duc de
Bercy said to you before the States of Bercy. "Of course," you
answered. You told your lie without pity.

Were you blind that you did not see the consequences? Or did you
not feel the horror of your falsehood?--to play shuttlecock with a
woman's life, with the soul of your wife; for that is what your
conduct means. Did you not realise it, or were you so wicked that
you did not care? For I know that before you wrote me this letter,
and afterwards when you had been made prince, and heir to the duchy,
the Comtesse Chantavoine was openly named by the Duc de Bercy for
your wife.

Now read the truth. I understand all now. I am no longer the
thoughtless, believing girl whom you drew from her simple life to
give her so cruel a fate. Yesterday I was a child, to-day----Oh,
above all else, do you think I can ever forgive you for having
killed the faith, the joy of life that was in me! You have spoiled
for me for ever my rightful share of the joyous and the good. My
heart is sixty though my body is not twenty. How dared you rob me
of all that was my birthright, of all