“I don’t believe in that conclusion,” said Madame de l’Estorade; “I think he will return, and if so, my dear, you really must take your courage in both hands and cut short his acquaintance.”
“Is that,” said Monsieur de l’Estorade, looking attentively at his wife, “your actual desire?”
“Mine?” she replied; “if I had my way, I should write to him and say that he would do us a favor by not reappearing in our house. As that would be rather a difficult letter to write, let us write it together, if you are willing.”
“We will see about it,” said Monsieur de l’Estorade, brightening up under this suggestion; “there’s no danger in going slow. The most pressing thing at this moment is the flower-show; I think it closes at four o’clock; if so, we have only an hour before us.”
Madame de l’Estorade, who had dressed before the arrival of Madame de Camps, rang for her maid to bring her a bonnet and shawl. While she was putting them on before a mirror, her husband came up behind her and whispered in her ear,—
“Then you really love me, Renee?”
“Are you crazy, to ask me such a question as that?” she answered, looking at him affectionately.
“Well, then, I must make a confession: that letter, which Philippe brought—I read it.”
“Then I am not surprised at the change in your looks and manner,” said his wife. “I, too, will make you a confession: that letter to Monsieur de Sallenauve, giving him his dismissal,—I have written it; you will find it in my blotting-book. If you think it will do, send it.”
Quite beside himself with delight at finding his proposed successor so readily sacrificed, Monsieur de l’Estorade did not control his joy; taking his wife in his arms, he kissed her effusively.