"Proof!" was all the Baron could say.
Crevel took a flat candlestick and led Hulot into the adjoining room, where he saw, on a sofa, a superb dressing-gown belonging to Valerie, which he had seen her wear in the Rue Vanneau, to display it before wearing it in Crevel's little apartment. The Mayor pressed the spring of a little writing-table of inlaid work, known as a bonheur-du-jour, and took out of it a letter that he handed to the Baron.
"Read that," said he.
The Councillor read these words written in pencil:
"I have waited in vain, you old wretch! A woman of my quality does
not expect to be kept waiting by a retired perfumer. There was no
dinner ordered—no cigarettes. I will make you pay for this!"
"Well, is that her writing?"
"Good God!" gasped Hulot, sitting down in dismay. "I see all the things she uses—her caps, her slippers. Why, how long since—?"
Crevel nodded that he understood, and took a packet of bills out of the little inlaid cabinet.
"You can see, old man. I paid the decorators in December, 1838. In October, two months before, this charming little place was first used."
Hulot bent his head.