But, all the time he was talking, he was casting over in his mind expedients of getting his wife out of the house long enough for him to search her bureau.
At last he asked Mme. Fauvel if she were going out before dinner.
“Yes,” said she: “the weather is dreadful, but Madeleine and I must do some shopping.”
“At what time shall you go?”
“Immediately after breakfast.”
He drew a long breath as if relieved of a great weight.
In a short time he would know the truth.
His uncertainty was so torturing to the unhappy man that he preferred the most dreadful reality to his present agony.
Breakfast over, he lighted a cigar, but did not remain in the dining-room to smoke it, as was his habit. He went into his study to try and compose his nerves.
He took the precaution to send Lucien on a message so as to be alone in the house.