ud of his love, he would gladly have proclaimed it abroad
instead of hiding it as a thing to be ashamed of. Ah, Mari' Anto! I have
awaked from a beautiful dream! Farewell for ever.'

She read his letter with her eyes hardly open, swollen with the tears
she had been shedding all night. 'Is Monsieur Astier gone?' The maid who
was leaning out of the window to fasten back the shutters that moment
caught sight of the carriage that was taking away M. Paul, right at the
end of the avenue, too far off to be called back. The Duchess sprang out
of bed and flew to the clock. 'Nine o'clock.' The express did not reach
Onzain till ten. 'Quick, a messenger--Bertoli, and the best of the
horses!' By taking the short cut through the woods he could reach
the station before the carriage. Whilst her orders were being hastily
carried out she wrote a note, standing, without waiting to dress. 'Come
back; all shall be as you wish.' No, that was too cold. That would not
bring him back. She tore up the note, wrote another, 'What you will,
so long as I am yours,' and signed it with her title. Then, wild at the
thought that perhaps even that would not bring him, she cried, 'I'll go
myself! My habit, quick!' And she called out of the window to Bertoli,
whose horse was by this time waiting impatiently at the foot of the
steps, and gave orders to saddle 'Mademoiselle Oger' for herself.

She had not ridden for five years. Her figure had grown stouter, the
stitches of the habit gave way, some of the hooks were missing. 'Never
mind, Matea, never mind.' She went down the staircase with the train
over her arm, between the footmen who stood with blank looks of
astonishment, and set off full speed down the avenue, through the gate,
into the road, into the wood, and down the cool green paths and long
avenues, where the wild creatures fluttered and leapt away as she
galloped madly by. She must and will have him. He is her death and
life. She has tasted love; and what else does the world contain? Leaning
forward, she listens for the sound of the train and watches in every
distant view for the steam skirting the horizon. If only she is in time!
Poor thing! She might let her horse walk, and yet she would overtake
that handsome runaway He is her evil genius, and he is not to be
escaped.

[Illustration: down the cool gree paths and long avenues 298]

CHAPTER XIV.

From the Vicomte de Freydet

To Mademoiselle Germaine de Fr