When everything had been examined to the chief officer’s satisfaction, he muttered something to his men, and, approaching Madame de X——, laid his hand on the little table!
“What is in this, Madame?” he demanded.
“That?” she replied, with a calm that surprised herself; “only embroidery-silks and things of that sort—it is my work-table.”
“There is a drawer in it, n’est-ce pas?”
“No, Monsieur, it opens at the top.”
Though this was the crisis of all, Madame de X—— stated that a strange calm of indifference came over her; a conviction that the end had come gave her the recklessness of despair.
The soldiers, at that moment, were busy replacing books in the bookcase; the other officer, at her desk, was putting together certain letters of wholly innocent character he thought might be of service later on.
“I should like to look into the table, if you please,” said the chief.
“Bien.” She lifted her work-basket and, handing it to him, said: “Will you kindly set that on the other table?”