“It is as clear as day,” replied the Marquise. “These expressions betray her—‘a pious duty to warn you—‘celebrated for his successful affairs of the heart’—‘every honest person.’ She can disguise her writing, but not her style. But what is still more conclusive is that which she attributes to Monsieur de Camors—for I suppose it alludes to him—and to his private prospects and calculations. This can not have failed to strike you, as it has me, I suppose?”
“If I thought this vile letter was her work,” cried the General, “I never would see her again during my life.”
“Why not? It is better to laugh at it!”
The General began one of his solemn promenades across the room. The Marquise looked uneasily at the clock. Her husband, intercepting one of these glances, suddenly stopped.
“Do you expect Camors to-day?” he inquired.
“Yes; I think he will call after the session.”
“I think he will,” responded the General, with a convulsive smile. “And do you know, my dear,” he added, “the absurd idea which has haunted me since I received this infamous letter?—for I believe that infamy is contagious.”
“You have conceived the idea of observing our interview?” said the Marquise, in a tone of indolent raillery.
“Yes,” said the General, “there—behind that curtain—as in a theatre; but, thank God! I have been able to resist this base intention. If ever I allow myself to play so mean a part, I should wish at least to do it with your knowledge and consent.”
“And do you ask me to consent to it?” asked the Marquise.