"Papers?" cried Lissac. "Her letter, parbleu!"
He was no longer in doubt. The delicate, dreaded hand of Marianne was at the bottom of all that. She had made some bargain with Monsieur Jouvenet, as between a woman and a debauchee! The Prefect of Police was not the loser: Marianne Kayser had the wherewithal to satisfy him.
"The miserable wench!" Lissac repeated as he went up to his apartment.
He rang and his servant appeared, looking as bewildered as the porter.
The apartment was still topsy-turvy. The valet de chambre had not dared to put the things in order, as if there reigned, amid the scattered packages and the yawning drawers, the majesty of the official seal.
They had examined everything, forced locks and removed packets of letters.
The small Italian cabinet, that contained Marianne's letter, had had its drawers turned over, like pockets turned inside out. Marianne's letter to Lissac, the scrap of paper which the police hunted, without knowing whose will they were obeying, that confession of a crazy mistress to a lover who was smitten to his very bones, was no longer there.
"Ah! I will see Vaudrey! I will see him and tell him!" said Lissac aloud.
"Will monsieur breakfast?"
"Yes, as quickly as possible. Two eggs and tea, I am in a hurry."