And Martial entered the chamber of Mme. Blanche.
The room was in disorder, for the duchess, after returning from the Poivriere, was still engaged in her toilet when the visitors were announced.
The wardrobe-doors were open, the chairs were encumbered with wearing apparel, the articles which Mme. Blanche used daily—her watch, her purse, and several bunches of keys—were lying upon the dressing-table and mantel.
Martial did not sit down. His self-possession was returning.
“No folly,” he thought, “if I question her, I shall learn nothing. I must be silent and watchful.”
He was about to retire, when, on glancing about the room, his eyes fell upon a large casket, inlaid with silver, which had belonged to his wife ever since she was a young girl, and which accompanied her everywhere.
“That, doubtless, holds the solution of the mystery,” he said to himself.
It was one of those moments when a man obeys the dictates of passion without pausing to reflect. He saw the keys upon the mantel; he seized them, and endeavored to find one that would fit the lock of the casket. The fourth key opened it. It was full of papers.
With feverish haste, Martial examined the contents. He had thrown aside several unimportant letters, when he came to a bill that read as follows:
“Search for the child of Madame de Sairmeuse. Expenses for the third quarter of the year 18—.”