'I think,' continued Mr. Valmont, 'it is my lot to receive nothing but disobedience and ingratitude from those to whom I have shown most kindness. You heard the insolence with which Sibella, to-day dared to arraign my conduct. Tell her from me, Clement, that she almost urged me to counteract the great good I intend her. But I will not be rash. Tell her, that implicit obedience, and humble submission may expiate her offence. I declare solemnly, that if she dares enter into my presence to plead for you, while you stay in the castle, she shall that instant be confined close prisoner in her chamber, and shall see you no more. If she becomes modest, temperate, and submissive, and things turn out as I expect, she will live yet to be very happy with the husband I intend her.' Much longer did he enlarge upon Sibella's offence, his anger, her expected penitence, and his future designs for her. I heard him but imperfectly. The other part of his harangue had conjured up a horrible fiend. Dead-eyed poverty glared before me. At length, he stumbled on a supposition, that Sibella would attempt to leave the Castle with me; and I readily promised, as he desired, that I would neither make, nor assist in the attempt, but would inform him if she resolved on so dangerous and mad an enterprise. Not one consolating hint did my ready obedience purchase. He said, indeed, that the propriety of my present deportment merited commendation. And he dismissed me. After four hours of this cruel interviews' duration, he permitted me to stagger, sick, oppressed, drooping, dying, to my chamber, and seek rest, if I could find it. I number the moments with more exactness than the sands of an hour-glass. One month is wasted now to one fortnight, and the end of that fortnight is wretchedness certain and endless. I have not told Sibella, yet she sees misery in my looks. She hears it in my sighs, and the contagion has reached her. We meet but seldom. Complaint and remonstrance have usurped the place of transport and endearment. To her I attribute my sorrows to my jealousy of this rival, to whom Mr. Valmont dooms her. Alas, my jealousy has but a small share in them. Two years back, but to have dreamed another had gained possession of her charms would have driven me mad. Now I know it an inevitable certainty, and my feeble jealousy has none of the fierce characteristics of that raging passion: no, it is just fitting the groveling lover who is condemned to earn his abject livelihood. She has seen him too. Mr. Valmont, in his own inexplicable way, has contrived two whimsical meetings for them. She does not conjecture this. Having related the circumstance, it is removed from her thoughts, and she mourns my supposed jealousy, as a cruel misfortune.