“Here?”
“No; to Château Ardron. In that case, mon amie,” continued the little man, apologetically, “permit me to observe that the letter would be forwarded to Monsieur Deshoulières.”
Madame sighed. “I do not think I shall ever be able to educate you,” she said; “I must soon give it up. And you can actually assert that such a danger has only just struck you, and that all this time you have taken no precaution against it. Hein! look here!”
Her tone rose peremptory and shrill. M. Roulleau looked obediently at the copy of the letter she flourished before his eyes, and then admiringly at her.
“You are a marvel!” he said in his feeble, abject voice.
“I made her write it,” she said, still shrilly. “Bah, she is only too easy to manage, there is no satisfaction, one had but to work on her fears. Her letters will be sent here, and I think, monsieur, you will acknowledge that I can arrange who shall be the receiver?”
“I acknowledge every thing,” he said, with a deprecating gesture.
“Perhaps you may be relieved to know,” she continued, returning to her cold measured tones, “that I took further steps at the same time. It would be inconvenient if other letters reached M. Deshoulières. I requested, therefore, in his name, that all documents which might arrive should be forwarded to you. By this means we control one channel of communication.”
“But, Zénobie, my angel—”
“Well? more scruples?”