"Suzanne," I said presently, and the girl stole softly to my side. "You spoke of a letter that you had received for me. It is--ah--from--ah?"
"Yes, madame," answered Suzanne, eagerly, but somewhat irrelevantly. "Here it is, madame. It is from him, I feel sure."
I gazed at the envelope with Caroline's brilliant eyes, but I was not thankful for my temporary perfection of face and form. It came to me grimly that beauty may be a nuisance, or even a curse. I lacked the courage to open this note--an unconventional, perhaps lawless, tribute to my my wife's powers of fascination. There was an air of Spanish or Italian intrigue about the whole affair that shocked me. My imagination, which had developed wonderfully since early morning, likened myself and Suzanne to Juliet and her nurse.
"O, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou, Romeo?" I exclaimed, somewhat wildly. Suzanne drew back from me nervously.
"Will you not read the note, madame?"
"Anon, good nurse! But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee--"
"Mon Dieu!" gasped Suzanne, gazing at me, awe-struck. But I was pitiless.
"Suzanne," I said, firmly, glancing at the note in my hand, the chirography upon which seemed to be familiar, "Suzanne, I am very beautiful, am I not?"
"Oui, madame," assented Suzanne, enthusiastically.
"And I love my husband dearly, do I not?"