The papers which he wished to secure were a few brief notes that had been written to him, at different periods, by Camillia Moraquitos. The young girl had often slipped a few lines of affectionate encouragement into her lover's hand at a time when the lynx eyes of strangers prevented their exchanging a word.
Paul Lisimon knew that, brief as these letters were, they contained quite enough to betray the secret of the lovers, and to draw down upon Camillia all the terrors of a father's wrath.
He secured the little packet with a ribbon, which the Spanish girl had once worn in her hair, and, thrusting the packet into his bosom, prepared to accompany the officer.
As they were about leaving the apartment, a low rap sounded upon the panel of the door.
The person who thus demanded admittance was the French governess, Pauline Corsi.
"Let me speak to your prisoner—alone—if only for a few moments?" she said, pleadingly, and with all the fascination peculiar to her manner; "let me speak to him, monsieur, I implore!"
"You are welcome to speak to him, mademoiselle," replied the officer, "but I regret to tell you that whatever you have to say, must be said in my presence."
The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders with a graceful gesture of vexation.
"That is very hard, monsieur," she said, looking thoughtful.
"Nay, Mademoiselle Corsi," interposed Paul, who could not understand the Frenchwoman's desire to see him alone, "you can have nothing to say which this man may not hear. Speak freely; I have no secrets."