“Not yet returned?...” Dunoisse repeated.
It seemed to him that the servant must be absurdly mistaken; for in the inner breast-pocket of his coat, just above his heart, nestled a little note, penned in violet ink, in Henriette’s clear, delicate, characteristic handwriting. It had lain upon the vestibule-table in the Rue du Bac. He had read it and kissed it, and known assuagement of his burning torture for ten minutes, ere the twin-demons of jealousy and suspicion had swooped down on him again. It said, under the date of the day of his departure from Paris:
“Dearest,
“Take care of yourself upon that horrible railroad. I have been miserable all day, thinking about you. It is now six o’clock. My head aches. I am denied to all visitors—I have refused all invitations. I am going to dine early and betake myself to bed.—Another day—one more night of loneliness, and then—may my Hector’s guardian spirit guide him back in safety to his fond
’Riette.”
LV
Dunoisse, with a deadly sickness at the heart, drew out the little lying letter and re-read it, and turned a bleak sharp face upon the nervous servant, and asked, with a glance of the black eyes that made him wince and flush:
“Madame went out—yesterday evening—alone?”
Shame pierced him. To be reduced to questioning a servant was abominable. But he waited for the answer. It came:
“Madame was summoned, a few hours after Monsieur the Colonel’s departure.... A carriage was sent to fetch her. The carriage came from the Élysée.”