Martine listened, very pale.
“Then madame thinks it would be a good work to destroy them, a work that would assure the repose of monsieur’s soul?”
“Great God! Do I believe it! Why, if I had those dreadful papers in my hands, I would throw every one of them into the fire. Oh, you would not need then to put on any more sticks; with the manuscripts upstairs alone you would have fuel enough to roast three chickens like that.”
The servant took a long spoon and began to baste the fowl. She, too, seemed now to reflect.
“Only we haven’t got them. I even overheard some words on the subject, which I may repeat to madame. It was when mademoiselle went upstairs. Dr. Raymond spoke to her about the papers, asking her if she remembered some orders which she had received, before she went away, no doubt; and she answered that she remembered, that she was to keep the envelopes and to give him all the other manuscripts.”
Félicité trembled; she could not restrain a terrified movement. Already she saw the papers slipping out of her reach; and it was not the envelopes only which she desired, but all the manuscripts, all that unknown, suspicious, and secret work, from which nothing but scandal could come, according to the obtuse and excitable mind of the proud old bourgeoise.
“But we must act!” she cried, “act immediately, this very night! To-morrow it may be too late.”
“I know where the key of the press is,” answered Martine in a low voice. “The doctor told mademoiselle.”
Félicité immediately pricked up her ears.
“The key; where is it?”