“You’ll get more comfort out of it; and you can go to the Ambigu and Franconi’s at your ease in a coach.”

“As for Franconi, I don’t like that, for they don’t talk there.  Monsieur, if I accept, it is because it will be very advantageous for my child.  I sha’n’t be a drag on her any longer.  Poor little thing!  I’m glad she has her pleasures, after all.  Ah, monsieur, youth must be amused!  And so, if you assure me that no harm will come to anybody—­”

“Not to anybody,” replied Jules.  “But now, how will you manage it?”

“Well, monsieur, if I give Monsieur Ferragus a little tea made of poppy-heads to-night, he’ll sleep sound, the dear man; and he needs it, too, because of his sufferings, for he does suffer, I can tell you, and more’s the pity.  But I’d like to know what a healthy man like him wants to burn his back for, just to get rid of a tic douleureux which troubles him once in two years.  However, to come back to our business.  I have my neighbor’s key; her lodging is just above mine, and in it there’s a room adjoining the one where Monsieur Ferragus is, with only a partition between them.  My neighbor is away in the country for ten days.  Therefore, if I make a hole to-night while Monsieur Ferragus is sound asleep, you can see and hear them to-morrow at your ease.  I’m on good terms with a locksmith,—­a very friendly man, who talks like an angel, and he’ll do the work for me and say nothing about it.”

“Then here’s a hundred francs for him.  Come to-night to Monsieur Desmaret’s office; he’s a notary, and here’s his address.  At nine o’clock the deed will be ready, but—­silence!”

“Enough, monsieur; as you say—­silence!  Au revoir, monsieur.”

Jules went home, almost calmed by the certainty that he should know the truth on the morrow.  As he entered the house, the porter gave him the letter properly resealed.

“How do you feel now?” he said to his wife, in spite of the coldness that separated them.

“Pretty well, Jules,” she answered in a coaxing voice, “do come and dine beside me.”

“Very good,” he said, giving her the letter.  “Here is something Fouguereau gave me for you.”

Clemence, who was very pale, colored high when she saw the letter, and that sudden redness was a fresh blow to her husband.

“Is that joy,” he said, laughing, “or the effect of expectation?”

“Oh, of many things!” she said, examining the seal.

“I leave you now for a few moments.”

He went down to his study, and wrote to his brother, giving him directions about the payment to the widow Gruget.  When he returned, he found his dinner served on a little table by his wife’s bedside, and Josephine ready to wait on him.

“If I were up how I should like to serve you myself,” said Clemence, when Josephine had left them.  “Oh, yes, on my knees!” she added, passing her white hands through her husband’s hair.  “Dear, noble heart, you were very kind and gracious to me just now.  You did me more good by showing me such confidence than all the doctors on earth could do me with their prescriptions.  That feminine delicacy of yours—­for you do know how to love like a woman—­well, it has shed a balm into my heart which has almost cured me.  There’s truce between us, Jules; lower your head, that I may kiss it.”