Madame Derize reappeared first with her two children. The invisible comparison was greatly to her advantage. Thus framed, and with all the attraction of her youthfulness, he thought her singularly powerful.
"You have read it?" she asked when he had kissed Marie-Louise and his godson, little Philippe.
"Yes, Madame, but according to this letter she was not his mistress."
She was dumbfounded at this interpretation.
"Do not trifle with me: it is unkind."
Guided by his professional skill, he had discovered an argument which he explained, not without having protested against her intentions:
"Oh, Madame, I am trying—despite you, despite Albert—to find a way of avoiding this separation. It seems to me that had you wished to do so, you could easily have triumphed over your—your rival. This letter speaks only of an intellectual attraction. The scenes to which she alludes only pertain to impressions of historical places, and are the expressions of a certain mental exaltation."
Without any definite purpose, Mme. Molay-Norrois returned. Some people have this privilege. Elizabeth gently requested her to take the children away. Marie Louise, who resembled her father, with dark eyes like his, ever in a state of eager curiosity, her features rather pronounced, was looking at Philippe and listening to him attentively, while her mother feared the precocity of this little girl, who since their departure from Paris, had often asked rather embarrassing questions. As to the little boy, plump and fair, he was obstinately tugging at the tassel of a cushion which he hastened to pull off, so as to carry something away with him.
Once more alone with the lawyer, the young woman replaced the letter in its envelope.
"Now that you have read it, the solicitor will have no further use for it. Shall I refuse to show it again until the trial comes up?"