Fortune favours the brute.
Nine months after their marriage, a pair of spurs of a sharpness he could never have compassed fell into his lap.
A letter arrived for Madeleine while she and Lacaze sat at meat. It came from her brother Jean.
Dearest Madeleine,
I write to say that René Dudoy has taken a job in Paris. It is a good thing for him, but he will be lonely. He has said absolutely that he will not go to see you. I expect you can guess why. But we have told him not to be silly, and that you will be a good friend, if you can be nothing else. We think you would have wished us to do this. It is true, is it not? If so, look him up. His address will be 66 rue Castetnau.
Jacques and I are well, but still miss our only sister very much. The shop flourishes. We took twenty-six francs more last week than the week before, though a storm on Wednesday robbed us of six good litres.
Your loving brother,
Jean.
Covertly Lacaze watched her read it and lay it down. Something—Heaven knows what—told him that here was matter she did not wish him to see. He went to work delicately.