"Very nearly right," he answered. "I can't say I knew anything about it. I only suspected that it was the production of an enemy of yours and mine."
"Not Madame Pratolungo?"
"Yes! Madame Pratolungo."
I disagreed with him at the outset. Madame Pratolungo and my aunt had quarreled about politics. Any correspondence between them—a confidential correspondence especially—seemed to be one of the most unlikely things that could take place. I asked Oscar if he could guess what the letter contained, and why it was not to be given to me until Grosse reported that I was quite cured.
"I can't guess at the contents—I can only guess at the object of the letter," he said.
"What is it?"
"The object which she has had in view from the first—to place every possible obstacle in the way of my marrying you."
"What interest can she have in doing that?"
"My brother's interest."
"Forgive me, Oscar. I cannot believe it of her."