Madame de l’Estorade paid little attention to this programme, for a flash of light had illumined her mind.  As soon as she was alone, she took Marie-Gaston’s letter from her gown, and, finding it folded in the proper manner, she exclaimed,—­

“Not a doubt of it!  I remember perfectly that I folded it with the writing outside, as I put it back into the envelope; he must have read it!”

An hour later, Madame de l’Estorade and Madame de Camps met in the same salon where they had talked of Sallenauve a few days earlier.

“Good heavens! what is the matter with you?” cried Madame de Camps, seeing tears on the face of her friend, who was finishing a letter she had written.

Madame de l’Estorade told her all that had happened, and showed her Marie-Gaston’s letter.

“Are you very sure,” asked Madame de Camps, “that your husband has read the luckless scrawl?”

“How can I doubt it?” returned Madame de l’Estorade.  “The paper can’t have turned of itself; besides, in recalling the circumstances, I have a dim recollection that at the moment when I started to run to Rene I felt something drop,—­fate willed that I should not stop to pick it up.”

“Often, when people strain their memories in that way they fasten on some false indication.”

“But, my dear friend, the extraordinary change in the face and behavior of Monsieur de l’Estorade, coming so suddenly as it did, must have been the result of some sudden shock.  He looked like a man struck by lightning.”

“But if you account for the change in his appearance in that way, why look for symptoms of something wrong with his liver?”

“Ah! this is not the first time I have seen symptoms of that,” replied Madame de l’Estorade.  “But you know when sick people don’t complain, we forget about their illness.  See,” and she pointed to a volume lying open beside her; “just before you came in, I found in this medical dictionary that persons who suffer from diseases of the liver are apt to be morose, irritable, impatient.  Well, for some time past, I have noticed a great change in my husband’s disposition.  You yourself mentioned it to me the other day.  Besides, the scene Monsieur de Camps has just witnessed—­which is, I may truly say, unprecedented in our household—­is enough to prove it.”

“My dear love, you are like those unpleasant persons who are resolved to torture themselves.  In the first place, you have looked into medical books, which is the very height of imprudence.  I defy you to read a description of any sort of disease without fancying that either you or some friends of yours have the symptoms of it.  In the next place, you are mixing up things; the effects of fear and of a chronic malady are totally different.”

“No, I am not mixing them up; I know what I am talking about.  You don’t need to be told that if in our poor human machine some one part gets out of order, it is on that that any strong emotion will strike.”