“No, no, my dear Esther; pity your friend, and say no more about it.”
“Then I may read all the letters?”
“Yes, dearest, if it will amuse you.”
All the letters of the faithless Manon Baletti to me, with mine to her, were together on my table. I pointed them out to Esther, who begun to read them quite eagerly.
When I was dressed, as if for some Court holiday, Le Duc went out and left us by ourselves, for the worthy governess, who was working at her lace by the window, looked at her lace, and nothing else. Esther said that nothing had ever amused her so much as those letters.
“Those cursed epistles, which please you so well, will be the death of me.”
“Death? Oh, no! I will cure you, I hope.”
“I hope so, too; but after dinner you must help me to burn them all from first to last.”
“Burn them! No; make me a present of them. I promise to keep them carefully all my days.”
“They are yours, Esther. I will send them to you to-morrow.”