"Give me the letter," said he, in an imperious tone. Jenny recoiled with terror. She tried to conceal her agitation, to smile, to turn the matter into a joke.
"Not to-day," said she. "Another time; you are too curious."
But Sauvresy's anger was terrible; he became as purple as if he had had a stroke of apoplexy, and he repeated, in a choking voice:
"The letter, I demand the letter."
"Impossible," said Jenny. "Because," she added, struck with an idea, "I haven't got it here."
"Where is it?"
"At my room, in Paris."
"Come, then, let us go there."
She saw that she was caught; and she could find no more excuses, quick-witted as she was. She might, however, easily have followed Sauvresy, put his suspicions to sleep with her gayety, and when once in the Paris streets, might have eluded him and fled. But she did not think of that. It occurred to her that she might have time to reach the door, open it, and rush downstairs. She started to do so. Sauvresy caught her at a bound, shut the door, and said, in a low, hoarse voice:
"Wretched girl! Do you wish me to strike you?"