Presently, however, the voice of Madame de l’Estorade, speaking to some one at the door of the salon, reassured him as to the success of his trick, and a moment later she entered the study accompanied by Monsieur Octave de Camps.  Going forward to receive his visitor, he was able to see through the half-opened door the place where he had thrown the letter.  Not only had it disappeared, but he detected a movement which assured him that Madame de l’Estorade had tucked it away in that part of her gown where Louis XIV. did not dare to search for the secrets of Mademoiselle d’Hautefort.

“I have come, my dear friend,” said Monsieur de Camps, “to get you to go with me to Rastignac’s, as agreed on last night.”

“Very good,” said the peer, putting away his papers with a feverish haste that plainly indicated he was not in his usual state of mind.

“Don’t you feel well?” asked Madame de l’Estorade, who knew her husband by heart too well not to be struck by the singular stupefaction of his manner, while at the same time, looking in his face, she saw the signs of internal convulsion.

“True,” said Monsieur de Camps, “you certainly do not look so well as usual.  If you prefer it, we will put off this visit.”

“No, not at all,” replied Monsieur de l’Estorade.  “I have tired myself with this work, and I need the air.  But what was the matter with Rene?” he inquired of his wife, whose attention he felt was unpleasantly fixed upon him.  “What made him cry like that?”

“Oh, a mere nothing!” she replied, not relaxing her attention.

“Well, my dear fellow,” said the peer, trying to take an easy tone, “just let me change my coat and I’ll be with you.”

When the countess was alone with Monsieur de Camps, she said, rather anxiously,—­

“Don’t you think Monsieur de l’Estorade seems very much upset?”

“Yes; as I said just now, he does not look like himself.  But the explanation he gave seems sufficient.  This office life is bad for the health.  I have never been as well as since I am actively engaged about my iron-works.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Madame de l’Estorade, with a heavy sigh; “he ought to have a more active life.  It seems plain that there is something amiss with his liver.”

“What! because he is so yellow?  He has been so ever since I have known him.”

“Oh, monsieur, I can’t be mistaken!  There is something seriously the matter with him; and if you would kindly do me a service—­”

“Madame, I am always at your orders.”

“When Monsieur de l’Estorade returns, speak of the injury to Rene’s finger, and tell me that little wounds like that sometimes have serious consequences if not attended to at once, and that will give me an excuse to send for Doctor Bianchon.”

“Certainly,” replied Monsieur de Camps; “but I really don’t think a physician is necessary.  Still, if it reassures you—­”