_My own little wife--my beautiful Madeline [thus wrote Monsieur Belleisle, in his own language], if you wish to please me--although I am not worthy your forbearance--still, sweet one, if you can forgive me, and will try to please me, you will make yourself look tonight divinely fair. There are many fair faces in this place--many will meet us to-night, but I wish my wife to be without a rival in the loveliness which is hers! Your own_ _Emile._ Madeline read the letter twice, crumpled it in her hand, and threw it aside. She drank the wine which had been sent to her, and ate a biscuit; then, feeling somewhat refreshed and a good deal clearer in the head, she reviewed in her mind the exact state of affairs. Her first impulse that morning had been to leave her husband, to travel back to England and throw herself on the compassion of Mr. White. She knew that he would forgive her, kiss her, cry over her, and, looking a little saddened perhaps, take her to his hearth, as he had once done before. But now her common sense told her that a _husband_ could not be disposed of so readily. It was quite evident to her that Monsieur Belleisle, despite his violent words in the morning, did not wish to resign the bride he had taken so much trouble to win. If she were to return to her home, he might seek her out, and force her to return to him--or if she hid herself, he would be quite capable in his anger of making public such a story as would shame her for ever. The affair would be raked up for public comment, and the woman would be martyred, the man made a hero--as usual. Mrs. Grundy would hold up her hands in horror at the idea of a girl, still in her teens, forcing her music master to run away with her. Yes, the case would always stand so, for Madeline could not even urge in palliation of her act of desertion the fact of cruelty. Belleisle had spoken harshly, to be sure, but then how many husbands often did the same, and how few of them had the good taste to make so humiliating an apology? Perhaps after all he loved her in his own peculiar fashion, and if he was willing to atone, why the best thing she could do was to meet him half way, and, if she could not be happy, to try at least and be content. She looked at her watch; five o’clock. How quickly, and yet how wearily, the day had gone by! How white, how haggard, and old she looked! And he wanted her to eclipse the Parisian ladies who had come down to revive their beauty by the sea. She did not know that she had already done so, that during her daily walks on the seashore she had several times been pointed out as ‘the beautiful Mademoiselle Anglaise,’ whose sad eyes had unconsciously touched many hearts, and whose story many were guessing at, but no one knew.