"What would Henri say, and how could she excuse this strange visit?" She hesitated and was about to return, when she saw that the door was not closed, and that she could thus enter his room and satisfy herself without disturbing him. She decided--the door turned on its hinges, and Aminta entered. Crossing the antechamber, she had reached the bedroom, which was separated from it by a curtained door. She advanced to the bed, which she found had not been slept in. With a faint cry of terror she sank on an arm-chair. The clock struck four, and when she had heard the noises which had disturbed her it was nearly two; since then, therefore, the Marquis had been away. Yet this had occurred when he was within a few feet of her, and the care and secrecy with which it was accomplished showed that it had been premeditated. Not a sound except the opening of the door had reached Aminta's ears. The Marquise felt the most agonizing distress--no thought of perfidy, however, annoyed her; the idea of danger only occupying her mind. Just then her eyes fell on an open note which had doubtless been dropped by Maulear amid his hurry and trouble. She took it up, saying to herself, this note doubtless contains a challenge--a rendezvous--she approached the night lamp, and with difficulty suppressing her agitation, read as follows--"Dear Marquis, do not fail to come to-night. You know how anxiously you are expected, "FANNY DE BRUNEVAL." The letter was indeed a rendezvous, but not of the kind she had expected. The terms of the note were clear and precise; and the woman's name dissipated the mist from before her eyes, Maulear had deserted her and his home in the silence of night for such a person. She it was whom he deceived--she who had been so loyal and true, she who sought, even when Maulear asked her hand, to protect him--who begged him to distrust his impressions and not to act in haste. "I was right," said she, "to fear the bonds he wished to impose on me--I was right to object to a marriage which could not make him happy--only two years," said she, with a voice of half stifled emotion, "and he is already cold and indifferent to me. He has already abandoned me--and worse still, he has done so with treachery. Mother! mother! why did you not keep me with you? This then, is the reward of my generous devotion. Alas! when I accepted him--when I wrested him from the death which menaced him--when I gave myself to him, I did not love him, I did not hesitate when perhaps----" Aminta blushed amid her tears. "Above all," said she, "I do not wish him to find me here--I do not wish him to reproach me as he has done with seeking to penetrate his secrets." She returned to her room, and from exhaustion and tears sank on her bed.