"Mon Dieu!" Marguerite exclaimed involuntarily. "What senseless folly!"
"Ah! but that is not the worst. Folly, you say! But there is worse folly still!"
With the same febrile movements that characterised his whole attitude, he drew a stained and crumpled letter from his pocket.
"She sent me this, this morning," he said. "That is why I came to you."
"You mean Régine?" Marguerite asked, and took the letter which he was handing to her.
"Yes! She must have brought it round herself . . . to my lodgings . . . in the early dawn. I did not know what to do . . . whom to consult. . . . A blind instinct brought me here . . . I have no other friend . . ."
In the meanwhile Marguerite was deciphering the letter, turning a deaf ear to his ramblings.
"My Bertrand," so the letter ran, "Jacques is going to France. Nothing will keep him back. He says it is his duty. I think that he is mad, and I know that it will kill maman. So I go with him. Perhaps at the last—at Dover—my tears and entreaties might yet prevail. If not, and he puts this senseless project in execution, I can watch over him there, and perhaps save him from too glaring a folly. We go by the coach to Dover, which starts in an hour's time. Farewell, my beloved, and forgive me for causing you this anxiety; but I feel that Jacques has more need of me than you."
Below the signature "Régine de Serval" there were a few more lines, written as if with an afterthought:
"I have told maman that my employer is sending me down into the country about some dresses for an important customer, and that as Jacques can get a few days' leave from his work, I am taking him with me, for I feel the country air would do him good.