Now that they are tolerated and left in peace they go mad. Decidedly, fate is against them," Durtal concluded.
He rose and went to answer a ring at the door. He came back with a letter which the concierge had brought. He opened it.
"Why, what is this?" he exclaimed. His astonishment grew as he read:
"Monsieur,
"I am neither an adventuress nor a seeker of adventures, nor am I a society woman grown weary of drawing-room conversation. Even less am I moved by the vulgar curiosity to find out whether an author is the same in the flesh as he is in his books. Indeed I am none of the things which you may think I am, from my writing to you this way. The fact is that I have just finished reading your last book,"
"She has taken her time," murmured Durtal, "it appeared a year ago."
"melancholy as an imprisoned soul vainly beating its wings against the bars of its cage."
"Oh, hell! What a compliment. Anyway, it rings false, like all of them."
"And now, Monsieur, though I am convinced that it is always folly and madness to try to realize a desire, will you permit that a sister in lassitude meet you some evening in a place which you shall designate, after which we shall return, each of us, into our own interior, the interior of persons destined to fall because they are out of line with their 'fellows'? Adieu, Monsieur, be assured that I consider you a somebody in a century of nobodies.
"Not knowing whether this note will elicit a reply, I abstain from making myself known. This evening a maid will call upon your concierge and ask him if there is a letter for Mme. Maubel."