estroy all the romance by conducting the affair
on a business basis. But Raymond was more than sad, and his almost
severe demeanor alarmed my love, as well as my dignity ... he crossed to
the other side of the room and sat down. I followed him, trembling with
agitation, and my eyes filled with tears.

"You no longer love me," I said.

"I dare not love the fiancee of my friend."

"Don't mention M. de Monbert, nor your scruples, he would not understand
them."

"But he told you he loved you, Mlle., why did you leave him so
abruptly?"

"I distrusted this love and wished to test it."

"What is the result of the test?"

"He does not love me, and I despise him."

"He does love you, and you ought to respect him."

Then, in order to avoid painful explanations and self-justification, I
handed him a long letter I had written to my cousin, in which I related,
without telling her of my disguise, that I had seen the Prince de
Monbert at the theatre, described the people whom he was with, and my
disgust at his conduct. I begged her to read this letter to the Prince
himself, who is with her now--he has followed her to one of her estates
in Brittany; he would see from the decided tone of my letter, that my
resolution was taken, that I did not love him, and that the best thing
he could do was to forget me.

I had written this letter yesterday, under your inspiration, and to ward
off the imaginary dangers you feared. Rely upon it, my dear Valentine,
M. de Monbert knows that he has acted culpably towards me; he might,
perhaps, endeavor to prevent my marriage, but when he knows I am no
longer free, he will be compelled to resign himself to my loss; don't be
alarmed, I know of two beautiful creatures whom he will allow to console
him. A man really unhappy would not have confided the story of his
disdained love to all his friends, valets and the detectives; he would
not hand over to idle gossip a dear and sacred name; a man who has no
respect for his love, does not love seriously; he deserves neither
regard nor pity. I will write to him myself to-morrow, if you desire it;
but as to a quarrel, what does he claim? I have never given him any
rights; if he threatens to provoke my husband to a duel, I have only to
say: "Take for your seconds Messrs. Ernest and George de S., who were
intoxicated with you at the Odeon," and he will blush with shame, and
instantly recognise how odious and ridiculous is his anger.

I left Raymond alone i