“Enough, monsieur; as you say—silence! Au revoir, monsieur.”
Jules went home, almost calmed by the certainty that he should know the truth on the morrow. As he entered the house, the porter gave him the letter properly resealed.
“How do you feel now?” he said to his wife, in spite of the coldness that separated them.
“Pretty well, Jules,” she answered in a coaxing voice, “do come and dine beside me.”
“Very good,” he said, giving her the letter. “Here is something Fouguereau gave me for you.”
Clemence, who was very pale, colored high when she saw the letter, and that sudden redness was a fresh blow to her husband.
“Is that joy,” he said, laughing, “or the effect of expectation?”
“Oh, of many things!” she said, examining the seal.
“I leave you now for a few moments.”
He went down to his study, and wrote to his brother, giving him directions about the payment to the widow Gruget. When he returned, he found his dinner served on a little table by his wife’s bedside, and Josephine ready to wait on him.