I took the pencil he offered me, after a little hesitation, and inscribed the three letters.
“Carlo! An envelope—and call a taxi.”
“David! No scene.”
“Don’t worry, I tell you.”
I addressed the envelope, slipping the card into it and, the reckoning being paid, rose and stood deliberately facing Madame de Tinquerville. For that one awful moment, which I prolonged, I paid her back in terror the thousand humiliations of those hideous months.
Then we lifted our hats with exaggerated ceremony and went out.
We left the letter at her concierge’s and went directly to my apartment.
“You have letters—keepsakes—of hers?” asked De Saint Omer.
I nodded.
“Make a package of them and leave them with the concierge, to be given to her when she calls—”