It was not the anguish of a loving heart which made her tremble; it was the wounded pride of the woman.
He had abandoned her.

Her beauty, her youth no longer had the power to enchain him--the man with white hairs and withered features.
He had written her that he was satiated and weary, not of her, but only of love in general; that his heart had become old and withered like his face: and that there was still in his breast no more room for love, but only for ambition.
Was not that a revolting, an unheard-of outrage--to abandon the finest woman in England for the sake of empty, cold, stern ambition?
She opened the letter once more.

Once more she read that place.

Then grinding her teeth with tears of anger in her eyes: "He shall pay me for this! I will take vengeance for this insult!" She thrust the letter into her bosom, and touched the silver bell.
"Have my carriage brought round!" was her order to the servant who entered; and he withdrew in silence.
"I will avenge myself!" muttered she, as with trembling hands she wrapped herself in her large Turkish shawl.

"I will avenge myself; and, by the Eternal! it shall be a bloody and swift vengeance! I will show him that I, too, am ambitious, and that my pride is not to be humbled.
He says he will forget me.