“Ah! I cannot make it out,” sighed Daniel. “I must consult Brevan.”
On his writing-table he found that important and urgent work which the minister had intrusted to his hands still unfinished. But the minister, the department, his position, his preferment,—all these considerations weighed as nothing in comparison with his passion.
He went down, therefore; and, while his carriage drove to his friend’s house, he thought of the surprise he would cause Maxime.
When he arrived there, he found M. de Brevan standing in his shirt- sleeves before an immense marble table, covered all over with pots and bottles, with brushes, combs, and sponges, with pincers, polishers, and files, making his toilet.
If he expected Daniel, he had not expected him so soon; for his features assumed an expression which seemed to prohibit all confidential talk. But Daniel saw nothing. He shook hands with his friend, and, sinking heavily into a chair, he said,—
“I went to Miss Brandon. She has made me promise all she wanted. I cannot imagine how it came about!”
“Let us hear,” said M. de Brevan.
Then, without hesitation, and with all the minutest details, Daniel told him how Miss Brandon had taken him into her little boudoir, and how she had exculpated herself from all complicity with Malgat by showing him the letters written by that wretched man.
“Strange letters!” he said, “which, if they are authentic”—
M. de Brevan shrugged his shoulders.