CHAPTER XXVII.
Je noterai cela, Madame, dans mon livre .-- Moliere.
I am not one of those persons who are many days in deciding what may be effected in one.

"On the third day from this," said I to Bedos, "at half past nine in the morning, I shall leave Paris for England." "Oh, my poor wife!" said the valet, "she will break her heart if I leave her." "Then stay," said I.Bedos shrugged his shoulders.
"I prefer being with Monsieur to all things." "What, even to your wife ?" The courteous rascal placed his hand to his heart and bowed.

"You shall not suffer by your fidelity--you shall take your wife with you." The conjugal valet's countenance fell.

"No," he said, "no; he could not take advantage of Monsieur's generosity." "I insist upon it--not another word." "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.