"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