She went to fetch it and gave it to him.
"But, wretched woman, couldn't you see that it was a forgery? The handwriting is a good imitation . . . but it's a forgery. . . . Any one can see that." He pressed his clenched hands to his temples with rage. "That's the move I was wondering about. Oh, the dirty scoundrel! He's attacking me through her . . . . But how does he know? No, he does not know. . . . He's tried it on twice now . . . and it's because of Geneviève, because he's taken a fancy to her. . . . Oh, not that! Never! Listen, Victoire, are you sure that she doesn't love him? . . . Oh, I'm losing my head! . . . Wait . . . wait! . . . I must think . . . this isn't the moment. . . ."
He looked at his watch:
"Twenty-five minutes to two. . . . I have time. . . . Idiot that I am! Time to do what? How do I know where she is?"
He walked up and down like a madman; and his old nurse seemed astounded at seeing him so excited, with so little control of himself:
"After all," she said, "there is nothing to prove that she did not suspect the trap at the last moment. . . ."
"Where could she be?"
"I don't know . . . perhaps at Mrs. Kesselbach's."
"That's true . . . that's true. . . . You're right," he cried, filled with sudden hope.
And he set out at a run for the House of Retreat.