“Sign it Eleanore-Jeanne de la Roche-Jugan!” she said.

“Do you think so?” asked the General.

“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.

“My poor Charlotte!” said the General, in a sad and almost supplicating tone, “I am an old fool—­an overgrown child—­but I feel that this miserable letter will poison my life.  I shall have no more an hour of peace and confidence.  What can you expect?  I was so cruelly deceived before.  I am an honorable man, but I have been taught that all men are not like myself.  There are some things which to me seem as impossible as walking on my head, yet I see others doing these things every day.  What can I say to you?  After reading this perfidious letter, I could not help recollecting that your intimacy with Camors has greatly increased of late!”

“Without doubt,” said the Marquise, “I am very fond of him!”

“I remembered also your tete-a-tete with him, the other night, in the boudoir, during the ball.  When I awoke you had both an air of mystery.  What mysteries could there be between you two?”

“Ah, what indeed!” said the Marquise, smiling.

“And will you not tell me?”

“You shall know it at the proper time.”

“Finally, I swear to you that I suspect neither of you—­I neither suspect you of wronging me—­of disgracing me—­nor of soiling my name . . .  God help me!