“Written four months ago?”
“Written four days ago.”
She clutched at her bosom and paled and said between her teeth: “Have you got it?”
“Here it is.”
Ralph, who had listened to the last dozen sentences with extreme discomfort, trembled. He recognized the letter which he had sent from Lillebonne to Clarice d’Etigues.
Josephine took it from Beaumagnan and read it in a low voice, giving every syllable its full value:
Forgive me, dear Clarice. I have treated you like a scoundrel. Let us hope for a brighter future and think of me with all the indulgence of your generous heart. Once more, forgive me—forgive.
Ralph.
She hardly had the strength to finish the reading of this letter, which denied her and wounded her vanity in the cruelest fashion. She tottered. Her eyes sought those of Ralph. He understood that Clarice was condemned to death and in his heart of hearts he knew that never again would he feel anything but hate for Josephine Balsamo.
Beaumagnan said quietly, in explanation: “Godfrey intercepted this letter and sent it to me, asking my advice. The postmark on the envelope was Lillebonne; that’s how I got on the track of both of you again.”