“No, madam; you may probably find that you’ll need them both at the end of our interview.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked she, haughtily.
“This is no time for grand airs or mock dignity, madam,” said I, with the tone of the avenging angel. “Do you know these? are these in your hand? Deny it if you can.”
“Why should I deny it? Of course they’re mine.”
“And you wrote this, and this, and this?” cried I, almost in a scream, as I shook forth one after another of the letters.
“Don’t you know I did?” said she, as hotly; “and nothing beyond a venial mistake in one of them!”
“A what, woman? a what?”
“A mere slip of the pen, sir. You know very well how I used to sit up half the night at my exercises?”
“Exercises!”
“Well, themes, if you like better; the Count made me make clean copies of them, with all his corrections, and send them to him every day—here are the rough ones;” and she opened a drawer filled with a mass of papers all scrawled over and blotted. “And now, sir, once more, what do you mean?”