"Yes! she attempted the impossible. She pretended she could explain
the correspondence. She told me . . . But can I remember what she said?
Lies, absurd, infamous lies."
The advocate had finished gathering up his letters, without noticing the
abstraction. He tied them together carefully, and replaced them in the
secret drawer of his bureau.
"Yes," continued he, rising and walking backwards and forward across
his study, as if the constant movement could calm his anger, "yes, she
pretended she could show me I was wrong. It was easy, was it not, with
the proofs I held against her? The fact is she adores her son, and her
heart is breaking at the idea that he may be obliged to restitute what
he has stolen from me. And I, idiot, fool, coward, almost wished not to
mention the matter to her. I said to myself, I will forgive, for after
all she has loved me! Loved? no. She would see me suffer the most
horrible tortures, without shedding a tear, to prevent a single hair
falling from her son's head."
"She has probably warned the count," observed old Tabaret, still
pursuing his idea.
"She may have tried, but cannot have succeeded, for the count has been
absent from Paris for more than a month and is not expected to return
until the end of the week.
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