He delighted in this self-contempt for several hours, inhaling his baseness and wallowing in it as in warm mire. Yet there were instants of respite, and in the evening he walked tranquilly, with a normal step, towards the dwelling of the absent one, but restless as a man who is expected.
Azélia opened the door before he rang.
"Monsieur! ah! just look!"
And she drew a letter from her dress.
"Madame has written me, and this is for you."
The white envelope with the oblique water-marks bore no writing.
"This is prudence!"
At the pressure of his fingers, he felt a very thin English onion-skin paper within.
"She has written me a volume here. Ah! Prolixity! Would a word not have sufficed?—Adieu!"
Hubert was very calm as he received this sentence of death, and his indifference, perfectly acted, although for himself, scandalized the good Azélia.