“Hedwig gave me the paper,” he said shortly.

“But my letter, saying I had nursed him to convalescence and had fallen ill myself?  You had time to reply but you did not do so.”

“I received no letter,” he said, like a speaking machine.

“Dear, dear, how could that be!” she muttered, tapping her foot on the head of the tiger-skin rug.

“Perhaps it arises from your never writing me any,” he said, but without bitterness.

“Oh, I could swear—­”

“It is of no consequence either way.”

“Since you did not reply, I came to you although it was at a great risk.  I would not tell you that I was leaving a sickroom for fear it would fill you with too great pain or too great hope.”

“How witty you are!”

“Would you not be happy if I died?”

“If you were in a dying state, somebody might have written for you—­Madame Lesperon or your uncle,” speaking as if the persons were fabulous creatures.

“Oh, my granduncle is well known at the Russian Embassy, and Madame and M. Lesperon remember your lamented father distinctly.”

He bit his lip as if he detested hearing his father spoken of by her.

“Madame wanted to write to you—­she expected you to come for me, like any other husband, but I knew you were not like other husbands, and would not come.”

She was sincere; women always speak out when boldness is an excuse.

“You mistake,” he interrupted, “I would have come, under the belief that on your death bed, you would have confession to make or desires to express which a husband alone should hear.”

“What do you suppose?” cried Cesarine, trying to forget that the speaker must have seen the death of her lover—­whether he connived at it or not—­and her flight, whether he facilitated it or not.

“I do not suppose anything, but I remember and I forsee.”

“Do you mean to say that you do not feel ill-will because I have come back?”

“Madame Clemenceau, this house is ours—­as much yours as mine.  That is why I asked you to come down here, for it is necessary to sell it.”

“Why am I charged with the business?”

“Because you have an interest in it.  Half of all I own is yours.”

“But you long ago repaid my share, and generously!”

“Not in the eyes of the law, and it pleases me that you should do this.”

“But I do not need anything.  My uncle was pleased at my nursing him back to health; his children have been unkind to him, and he has transferred to me some property in France, a handsome income!  Grant to me a great pleasure—­of which I am not worthy,” she went on tearfully, “but you will have the more merit, then!  Let me lend you any sum of which you have need.”

“I thank you, but I have already refused a thousand times the amount from an unsullied hand!” returned Clemenceau, emphatically.

“That Jewess’!” she exclaimed, with a great change in her bearing.