Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 13, 2025
It had been the darkest chapter of her life, that fatal month in Paris, when she had foolishly and recklessly placed herself in the power of a man so unscrupulous and so devoid of principle as Lucien D'Arblet. It had begun in all innocence on her part, at least. She had been very miserable; she had discovered to the full how wild a mistake her marriage had been.
"It is no use your saying it in French," says Denis, with a chuckle, twisting himself round again upon his chest, "because I have the good fortune, D'Arblet, to understand your charming language like a native, absolutely like a native." "You have a useful proverb in English, which says, that two is company, and three is none," retorts D'Arblet, with a smile.
But her grandfather had died and had left her his money, and her engagement and approaching marriage to another man was no secret, yet still Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet made no sign, and gave forth no token of his promised vengeance. Helen dared not flatter herself that he was dead, but she did hope, and hoped rightly, that he was not in England, and had not heard of the change in her fortunes.
Then it was that Monsieur D'Arblet, leaning forward with the rest to see them pass, caught sight of the face of the girl who stood by his side. She was pale as death; a look as of the horror of despair was in her eyes, her teeth were set, her hands were clenched together as one who has to impose a terrible and dreadful task upon herself.
"Monsieur D'Arblet has left town, Miss; he went by the tidal train last night on his way to the Continent, and has left no address." So Vera tore up her own note, and locked up the offending parcel in her dressing-case. Thus Grief still treads upon the heels of Pleasure; Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. Congreve.
Only, unfortunately, I have promised to deliver it in this manner." Mrs. Kynaston was looking at her fixedly; her anger seemed to have died away. "Yes," she said, "it was Monsieur D'Arblet who gave them to you." "That was his name, D'Arblet. I did not like the man; but he bothered me until I foolishly undertook his commission.
Every detail of her acquaintance with Lucien D'Arblet came back to her with a horrible and painful distinctness. Over and over again she cursed her own folly, and bewailed the hardness of the fate which placed her once more in the hands of this man. Would he indeed keep his cruel threats to her?
At dinner, poor Denis Wilde curses Monsieur D'Arblet; Miss Frampton, and his own fate, indiscriminately and ineffectually. He is sitting exactly opposite to his divinity, but he cannot even enjoy the felicity of staring at her, for Miss Frampton will not let him alone. She chatters unceasingly and gushingly.
Hatred, jealousy, and malice strove and struggled within her, and something direr still a terror that she could not quench nor stifle; for late that night her husband had said to her suddenly, without a word of warning or preparation "Helen, do you know a Frenchman called D'Arblet?"
"Pray be careful, Monsieur D'Arblet, your sleeve nearly caught then in the handle of that Chelsea basket," cries Vera, in anguish. "And what to me are Chelsea baskets, or china, or trash of that kind, when you, cruel one, are determined to scorn me?" "Oh, if you would only come outside and have it out on the staircase," murmurs Vera, piteously.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking