“Is that for me?” asked the Marquis, who was in the act of turning a double somersault with much agility.
“It is for Monsieur.”
“Then read it aloud while I stand on my head.”
Isidore tore it open and began to read as follows:—
“Do not misjudge me——“
“Stop!” exclaimed Castrillon, falling upon his feet at once; “that is from a woman. Why didn't you say so?”
“It is from Madame Parflete,” replied Isidore.
“Impossible!” said Castrillon, snatching it from his hand; “impossible!”
He read the letter, flushed to the roots of his hair, and kicked Isidore for the second time.
“You beast!” said he; “where did you get this? It is her writing, but she never wrote it—never on God's earth! Where did you get it?”