Jules could not deny himself the pleasure of that embrace.  But it was not without a feeling of remorse in his heart; he felt himself small before this woman whom he was still tempted to think innocent.  A sort of melancholy joy possessed him.  A tender hope shone on her features in spite of their grieved expression.  They both were equally unhappy in deceiving each other; another caress, and, unable to resist their suffering, all would then have been avowed.

“To-morrow evening, Clemence.”

“No, no; to-morrow morning, by twelve o’clock, you will know all, and you’ll kneel down before your wife—­Oh, no! you shall not be humiliated; you are all forgiven now; you have done no wrong.  Listen, Jules; yesterday you did crush me—­harshly; but perhaps my life would not have been complete without that agony; it may be a shadow that will make our coming days celestial.”

“You lay a spell upon me,” cried Jules; “you fill me with remorse.”

“Poor love! destiny is stronger than we, and I am not the accomplice of mine.  I shall go out to-morrow.”

“At what hour?” asked Jules.

“At half-past nine.”

“Clemence,” he said, “take every precaution; consult Doctor Desplein and old Haudry.”

“I shall consult nothing but my heart and my courage.”

“I shall leave you free; you will not see me till twelve o’clock.”

“Won’t you keep me company this evening?  I feel so much better.”

After attending to some business, Jules returned to his wife, —­recalled by her invincible attraction.  His passion was stronger than his anguish.

The next day, at nine o’clock Jules left home, hurried to the rue des Enfants-Rouges, went upstairs, and rang the bell of the widow Gruget’s lodgings.

“Ah! you’ve kept your word, as true as the dawn.  Come in, monsieur,” said the old woman when she saw him.  “I’ve made you a cup of coffee with cream,” she added, when the door was closed.  “Oh! real cream; I saw it milked myself at the dairy we have in this very street.”

“Thank you, no, madame, nothing.  Take me at once—­”

“Very good, monsieur.  Follow me, this way.”

She led him up into the room above her own, where she showed him, triumphantly, an opening about the size of a two-franc piece, made during the night, in a place, which, in each room, was above a wardrobe.  In order to look through it, Jules was forced to maintain himself in rather a fatiguing attitude, by standing on a step-ladder which the widow had been careful to place there.

“There’s a gentleman with him,” she whispered, as she retired.

Jules then beheld a man employed in dressing a number of wounds on the shoulders of Ferragus, whose head he recognized from the description given to him by Monsieur de Maulincour.

“When do you think those wounds will heal?” asked Ferragus.

“I don’t know,” said the other man.  “The doctors say those wounds will require seven or eight more dressings.”