“My darling--my own, _own_ darling (for that you must ever be to me, let who will come between us), why will you make us both so unhappy? I know you are not happy, Fenella! I can read it in your face; hear it in each tone of your voice. Those were not the looks and tones that made the first years of our married life one long dream of bliss. And I am supremely miserable, more so than yourself, for I have sinned more against you than you have against me. I confess it, dear love. I prostrate myself before you, and I cry for forgiveness. Can you not forgive me? Will you not take me to your heart again, and let me try to atone for all the past? My life is so barren without you and my darling child. Do you suppose that anything can compensate me for your loss? As for Mme. de V., she is _nothing_ to me--less than nothing; a toy to pass away the time that goes so slowly without you; an opiate that for a moment makes me forget my pain, and sometimes, even while I seem to yield to her witcheries, I loathe her because she has come between us. But it shall never be again, dear love, if you but say the word. Come back to me, Fenella, and I will swear to wipe her (and all like her) out of my life, as surely as I would kill the viper that lay across your path. Oh, when I think of all that she has cost me, how bitterly I hate her!” There was much more in the same strain, but this was sufficient for Lucille, who lay back on her pillow with the paper crushed in her hand, and jealousy and revenge gleaming from her eyes. _This_ was how he thought of her, then. This was how he wrote and spoke of her to his wife--his faithless, flirting wife--the murderess, by her own account, of Count de Mürger, the unworthy mother of his child--the creature to whom he might, after all, return--so contemptible and despicable and mean-spirited were men. How could she be revenged on them both? On _him_ for so deceiving herself; and on _her_ for retaining her power over him? Mme. de Vigny did not weep. Her temperament was not of the weeping order, but she gnashed her teeth with impotent fury as she lay with her face buried in her pillow, and thought out her best means of revenge. Her maid was surprised to find how long a time elapsed before her usual services were required, but after the lapse of two hours she was summoned to her mistress’s side. Lucille was up, and engaged in writing. “Tell George to take this telegram into Chiddingford at once,” she exclaimed, handing it to her. It was addressed to Colonel Clutterbuck, and ran as follows: “If not engaged, dine with me this evening.”