es entirely; and now this
wished-for marriage would never take place.

When he entered his club, the traces of his agitation were so visible
upon his face, that some of the card-players stopped their game to
inquire if Chambertin, the favorite for the Chantilly cup, had broken
down.

"No, no," replied he, as he hurriedly made his way to the writing-room,
"Chambertin is as sound as a bell."

"What the deuce has happened to De Breulh?" asked one of the members.

"Goodness gracious!" remarked the man to whom the question was
addressed, "he seems in a hurry to write a letter."

The gentleman was right. M. de Breulh was writing a withdrawal from his
demand for Sabine's hand to M. de Mussidan, and he found the task by
no means an easy one, for on reading it over he found that there was
a valid strain of bitterness throughout it, which would surely attract
attention and perhaps cause embarrassing questions to be put to him.

"No," murmured he, "this letter is quite unworthy of me." And tearing it
up, he began another, in which he strung together several conventional
excuses, alleging the difficulty of breaking off his former habits and
of an awkward entanglement which he had been unable to break with, as
he had anticipated. When this little masterpiece of diplomacy was
completed, he rang the bell, and, handing it to one of the club
servants, told him to take it to the Count de Mussidan's house. When
this unpleasant duty was over, M. de Breulh had hoped to experience some
feeling of relief, but in this he was mistaken. He tried cards, but rose
from the table in a quarter of an hour; he ordered dinner, but appetite
was wanting; he went to the opera, but then he did nothing but yawn, and
the music grated on his nerves. At length he returned home. The day had
seemed interminable, and he could not sleep, for Sabine's face was ever
before him. Who could this man be whom she so fondly loved and preferred
before all others? He respected her too much not to feel assured that
her choice was a worthy one, but his experience had taught him that when
so many men of the world fell into strange entanglements, a poor girl
without knowledge of the dangers around her might easily be entrapped.
"If he is worthy of her," thought he, "I will do my best to aid her; but
if not, I will open her eyes."

At four o'clock in the morning he was still seated musing before the
expiring embers of his fire; he had made up his mind to see Andre--there