One day the lovers came back from Lake Nemi somewhat fatigued. They had dined at the Cesarini Villa, beneath showy camellias in bloom. Alone, with the emotion felt only by him who contemplates the most secret of secret things, they had contemplated the Mirror of Diana, as cold, as impenetrable to the view as the deep blue of a glacier.
As usual, they ordered tea. Hippolyte, who was looking for something in a valise, turned suddenly towards George, showing him a packet tied with a ribbon.
"You see, these are your letters. They never leave me."
George, with visible satisfaction, cried: "All? have you kept all?"
"Yes, all. I have even the notes—even the telegrams. The only one missing is the little note which I threw into the fire to prevent its falling into my husband's hands. But I saved the burnt fragments; you can still read a few words."
"Let me see, will you?" said George.
But, with a jealous movement, she hid the package. Then, as George advanced towards her with a smile, she fled into the adjoining room.
"No, no; you shall see nothing. I won't let you."
She refused, partly in jest, partly too because, having always guarded them preciously as a hidden treasure, with pride and fear, it was repugnant to her to show them even to him who had written them.
"Let me see them, I beg of you. I am so curious to reread my letters of two years ago. What did I write you?"