"I insist upon it--not another word." "I beg a thousand pardons of Monsieur; but--but my wife is very ill, and unable to travel." "Then, in that case, so excellent a husband cannot think of leaving a sick and destitute wife." "Poverty has no law; if I consulted my heart and stayed, I should starve, et il faut vivre." "Je n'en vois pas la necessite," replied I, as I got into my carriage. That repartee, by the way, I cannot claim as my own; it is the very unanswerable answer of a judge to an expostulating thief. I made the round of reciprocal regrets, according to the orthodox formula. The Duchesse de Perpignan was the last--(Madame D'Anville I reserved for another day)--that virtuous and wise personage was in the boudoir of reception. I glanced at the fatal door as I entered. I have a great aversion, after any thing has once happened and fairly subsided, to make any allusion to its former existence. I never, therefore, talked to the Duchess about our ancient egaremens. I spoke, this morning, of the marriage of one person, the death of another, and lastly, the departure of my individual self. "When do you go?" she said, eagerly. "In two days: my departure will be softened, if I can execute any commissions in England for Madame." "None," said she; and then in a low tone (that none of the idlers, who were always found at her morning levees, should hear), she added, "you will receive a note from me this evening." I bowed, changed the conversation, and withdrew. I dined in my own rooms, and spent the evening in looking over the various billets-doux, received during my sejour at Paris. "Where shall I put all these locks of hair?" asked Bedos, opening a drawer full. "Into my scrap-book." "And all these letters?" "Into the fire." I was just getting into bed when the Duchesse de Perpignan's note arrived--it was as follows:-- "My dear Friend,