“How did she know I had it?” murmured the little man, half in admiration, half in fear, as he took it from his pocket. Madame received it in silence. The note consisted only of a few lines:—“If Monsieur Deshoulières desires tidings of Monsieur Fabien Saint-Martin, nephew of Monsieur Moreau, recently deceased, let him find himself at the Lion d’Or, at Pont-huine, on the afternoon of the 20th of November, at three o’clock.” No more. The post-mark was Paris.
“The twentieth! That is to-day,” remarked madame meditatively. The paleness had increased a little; her lips were set more tightly.
“One hundred and eighty francs a month,” groaned Roulleau.
“And M. Deshoulières is gone?”
“Gone? No. He has just received a message from the Préfet. Madame is taken in sharp illness. He came here fretting and fuming on his way to the Préfecture, as if this horrible Monsieur Saint-Martin were the one person he most desired to see upon the earth. Did you not understand, Zénobie? It is I who must go.”
“You! I understand! How can I understand?” screamed madame, facing round upon him in a flame of indignation—“when you come crying out that you are ruined, all the time having the game placed in your very hands! You have grown so crooked, you cannot even speak straight to your own wife. Can you not think even so much as this for yourself! Are you blind—a dolt—a baby—an imbecile!”
“Zénobie!” implored the little man in an agony.
“Yes!” she said, with a world of scorn in her tone; “that is your métier, and all you are fit for—to take care lest any one should overhear us. I cannot keep patience always. All the world may know that Monsieur Saint-Martin is coming, if they will.”
“Zénobie!”
“I repeat it. At what time do you go?”