"Speak, Geneviève, speak; of any other woman I would not ask it."
"It is a pretext," said Geneviève, looking down.
"Ah!" said Dixmer. Then after a moment's silence, placing upon his wife's chair the hand with which he had been striving to compress the beatings of his heart,—
"Will you do me a service?" said he.
"What service?" said Geneviève, turning around surprised.
"To prevent even the shadow of danger. Maurice is, perhaps, deeper in our secrets than we imagine. That which you believe a pretext may, perhaps, be a reality. Write him a line."
"I!" said Geneviève, starting.
"Yes, you. Tell him that you have opened the letter and desire an explanation. He will then call, you can interrogate him, and will easily discover what is the matter."
"Oh, no!" cried Geneviève, "I cannot do as you wish me; I will not do it."