"Your old nurse."
"Félicienne?"
"Yes."
M. de Lourtier cut short the conversation and, without permitting Rénine to ask any more questions, took him back to the study:
"You see, monsieur, that pneumatic letter came from a quite natural source. Félicienne, my old nurse, who lives not far from Paris on an allowance which I make her, read your advertisement and told Madame de Lourtier of it. For, after all," he added laughing, "I don't suppose that you suspect my wife of being the lady with the hatchet."
"No."
"Then the incident is closed ... at least on my side. I have done what I could, I have listened to your arguments and I am very sorry that I can be of no more use to you...."
He drank another glass of water and sat down. His face was distorted. Rénine looked at him for a few seconds, as a man will look at a failing adversary who has only to receive the knock-out blow, and, sitting down beside him, suddenly gripped his arm:
"Your excellency, if you do not speak, Hortense Daniel will be the seventh victim."
"I have nothing to say, monsieur! What do you think I know?"