“VALERIE.”
“And tears!” said Hulot to himself as he finished this letter, “tears which have blotted out her name.—How is she?” said he to Reine.
“Madame is in bed; she has dreadful spasms,” replied Reine. “She had a fit of hysterics that twisted her like a withy round a faggot. It came on after writing. It comes of crying so much. She heard monsieur’s voice on the stairs.”
The Baron in his distress wrote the following note on office paper with a printed heading:—
“Be quite easy, my angel, he will die a second-class clerk!—Your
idea is admirable; we will go and live far from Paris, where we
shall be happy with our little Hector; I will retire on my
pension, and I shall be sure to find some good appointment on a
railway.
“Ah, my sweet friend, I feel so much the younger for your letter!
I shall begin life again and make a fortune, you will see, for our
dear little one. As I read your letter, a thousand times more
ardent than those of the Nouvelle Heloise, it worked a miracle!
I had not believed it possible that I could love you more. This
evening, at Lisbeth’s you will see