“No; but now it is of little importance. We can go to the assizes.”
She breathed a sigh which showed how great were her fears, in spite of the confidence she expressed when she repeated that conviction was impossible.
He left his desk, and going toward her, took her in his arms, and made her sit down beside him on the divan.
“You will see that I do not let myself be carried away by an illusion, and that, as I tell you, he is saved, really saved. You know that an illustrated paper has published his portrait?”
“I do not read illustrated papers.”
“You could have seen them at the kiosks where they are displayed. It is there that I saw them yesterday morning when I went out, and I was petrified, red with shame, distracted, not knowing where to hide myself. ‘Florentin Cormier, the assassin of the Rue Sainte-Anne.’ Is it not infamous that an innocent person should be thus dishonored? This was what I said to myself. Where did the paper get the photograph? They came to ask us for one, but you can imagine how I treated them, not knowing how anything good for us would result from such a disgrace.”
“And what is the result?”
“The proof that it is not Florentin who was with Caffie at the moment when the assassination took place. All day yesterday and all this morning I was filled with the feeling of disgrace that followed me, when at three o’clock I received this little note from the concierge of the Rue Sainte-Anne.”
She took from her pocket a piece of paper folded in the form of a letter, which she handed to Saniel.
“MADEMOISELLE: If you will pass through the Rue Sainte-Anne, I have
something to tell you that will give you a great deal of pleasure, I
believe.
“I am your servant,
“WIDOW ANAIS BOUCHU.”