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Updated: June 20, 2025
"The next day the good old man came to me again. "He told me that my first marriage with Waldemar de Volaski was my only true marriage, indissoluble by anything but death, however invalid in law it might be pronounced by those who were interested in breaking it.
Among the invited guests were the Russian minister and his Secretary of Legation, Count de Volaski. The count came late and found the splendid drawing-room honored with a small, but brilliant, company of ladies and gentlemen, the former among the most celebrated beauties, the latter the most distinguished statesmen of Europe.
By the death of his father and elder brother, he became the Count Volaski, and the heir of all the family estates; and there were left dependent on him his widowed mother and several younger brothers and sisters.
"And, where is their daughter, Madame la Duchesse d'Hereward?" hesitatingly inquired the Count de Volaski. The gend'arme could not tell; he did not know; but supposed that she was living with her husband, Monsieur le Duc, on his estates in England.
The host, Lord C., went up to the embassadress to whom it was his cue to be most attentive. The Duke of Hereward sought out his hostess, and entered into a bantering conversation with her. Count Waldemar de Volaski came directly up to Valerie where she sat alone on the sofa in a distant corner of the room. The little gilded stand stood before her, and the photographic album lay open upon it.
Count de Volaski entered freely into the conversation of the guests. The Duchess of Hereward spoke but little; hers was a passive self-control, not an active one; she could force herself to be, or seem, composed; she could not force herself to talk; but her deep mourning dress was a good excuse for her extreme quietness, which was naturally ascribed to her recent and double bereavement.
Salome sat down beside her, and inquired in a low tone: "Mother Genevieve, was the Count Waldemar de Volaski ever in Scotland? Has he been there within the last twelve months?" The lady lifted her eyes to the face of the inquirer, and slowly replied: "My daughter, how should I know?
I have not yet recovered from the severe illness consequent upon my wound. Surely, I have suffered enough at the hands of the ruthless Baron de la Motte!" said Waldemar de Volaski.
His back was toward the company; his face toward her; his elbows, with unpardonable rudeness, were placed upon the stand, and his hands supported his chin, as he stared into her pale face with its downcast eyes. "Valerie," he said. She did not look up. "Valerie de Volaski!" he muttered. "My wife!" She shuddered, but did not lift her eyes.
This aroused the baron to a perfect frenzy of rage. He charged Volaski with having traded in Mademoiselle de la Motte's affections and honor, from selfish and mercenary motives alone, and swore that such deep, calculating villainy should avail the villain nothing.
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