M. d’Orbe went to order a chaise, and I proceeded to your lover and told him that it was his duty to leave at once.  At first he passionately refused, then he yielded to despair; then he begged to be allowed to see you once more.  I refused; I urged that all delays were dangerous.  His agony brought tears to my eyes, but I was firm.  M. d’Orbe led him away; mylord Edouard was waiting with the chaise, and they are now on the way to Besancon and Paris.

II.—­The Separation

TO JULIE

Why was I not allowed to see you before leaving?  Did you fear that the parting would kill me?  Be reassured.  I do not suffer—­I think of you—­I think of the time when I was dear to you.  Nay, you love me yet, I know it.  But why so cruelly drive me away?  Say one word, and I return like the lightning.  Ah, these babblings are but flung into empty air.  I shall live and die far away from you—­I have lost you for ever!

FROM MYLORD EDOUARD TO JULIE

Deep depression has succeeded violent grief in the mind of your lover.  But I can count upon his heart, it is a heart framed to fight and to conquer.

I have a proposition to make which I hope you will carefully consider.  In your happiness and your lover’s I have a tender and inextinguishable interest, since between you I perceive a deeper harmony than I have ever known to exist between man and woman.  Your present misfortunes are due to my indiscretion; let me do what I can to repair the fault.

I have in Yorkshire an old castle and a large estate.  They are yours and your lover’s, Julie, if you will accept them.  You can escape from Vevay with the aid of my valet, when I have left there; you can join your lover, be wedded to him, and spend the rest of your days happily in the place of refuge I have designed for you.

Reflect upon this, I beseech you.  I should add that I have said nothing of this project to your lover.  The decision rests with you and you alone.

FROM JULIE TO MYLORD EDOUARD

Your letter, mylord, fills me with gratitude and admiration.  It would indeed be joy for me to gain happiness under the auspices of so generous a friend, and to procure from his kindness the contentment that fortune has denied me.

But could contentment ever be granted to me if I had the consciousness of having pitilessly abandoned those who gave me birth?  I am their only living child; all their pleasure, all their hope is in me.  Can I deliver up their closing days to shame, regrets, and tears?  No, mylord, happiness could not be bought at such a price.  I dare brave all the sorrows that await me here; remorse I dare not brave.

FROM JULIE TO HER LOVER

I have just returned from the wedding of Claire and M. d’Orbe.  You will, I know, share my pleasure in the happiness of our dearest friend; and such is the worth of the friendship that joins us, that the good fortune of one of us should be a real consolation for the sorrows of the other two.