"And for what reason is the Princesse de Fersen deprived of the honour of seeing you, M. de Pommerive?"
"Why? Because I generally do like every one else; and, excepting diplomats and a few strangers, nobody in society sets a foot inside the princess's door."
"And why is this?" I inquired, almost mechanically, of M. de Pommerive.
"Forsooth! It is no secret, everybody knows it. The beautiful Muscovite is just simply a spy in high life."
CHAPTER XXVII
THE LAST EVENING
One more effort, and this cruel task will be at an end.
In vain I call upon my memory; I cannot remember what I said to Pommerive, and believe I made no reply.
I only remember that I felt neither indignant nor angry, as I would have been had this man uttered a calumny or an insult; on the contrary, I was utterly overwhelmed in the presence of this terrible accusation! It suddenly illumined the past with a sinister light, it abruptly aroused those implacable suspicions, of which I at once felt the sharp sting.
My grief was such that my brain was frenzied.