“Zénobie—Zénobie, mon amie!” he said piteously.
“Well? What now?”
“That which we dreaded is arriving—Monsieur Saint-Martin! What will become of us?”
“Is Monsieur Saint-Martin here?” inquired madame with perfect coolness, although she turned a shade paler.
“Here! The saints forbid!”
“The saints are not likely to be on your side, so that I would not place much confidence in their protection, if I were you,” said his wife, sarcastically. “Have the goodness, Ignace, to inform me what this great event may be that you find so disturbing.”
“Mon amie, do not be angry. I have come to you at once. But it is ruin. Monsieur Deshoulières has just been here; he has received a letter—”
“Well?”
“A letter about our affair.”
“Give it to me.”