But she was not the dupe of the explanation Camors had given her.  Women quickly understand one another in their grief.  Nevertheless she asked no confidences and received none; but her tenderness to her friend redoubled.  During the silence of that terrible night, the only service she could render her was to make her weep.

Nor did those laggard hours pass less bitterly for M. de Camors.  He tried to take no rest, but walked up and down his apartment until daylight in a sort of frenzy.  The distress of this poor child wounded him to the heart.  The souvenirs of the past rose before him and passed in sad procession.  Then the morrow would show him the crushed daughter with her mother—­and such a mother!  Mortally stricken in all her best illusions, in all her dearest beliefs, in all connected with the happiness of life!

He found that he still had in his heart lively feelings of pity; still some remorse in his conscience.

This weakness irritated him, and he denounced it to himself.  Who had betrayed him?  This question agitated him to an equal degree; but from the first instant he had not been deceived in this matter.

The sudden grief and half-crazed conviction of his wife, her despairing attitude and her silence, could only be explained by strong assurance and certain revelation.  After turning the matter over and over in his own mind, he arrived at the conclusion that nothing could have thrown such clear light into his life save the letters of Madame de Campvallon.

He never wrote the Marquise, but could not prevent her writing to him; for to her, as to all women, love without letters was incomplete.

But the fault of the Count—­inexcusable in a man of his tact—­was in preserving these letters.  No one, however, is perfect, and he was an artist.  He delighted in these the ‘chefs-d’oeuvre’ of passionate eloquence, was proud of inspiring them, and could not make up his mind to burn or destroy them.  He examined at once the secret drawer where he had concealed them and, by certain signs, discovered the lock had been tampered with.  Nevertheless no letter was missing; the arrangement of them alone had been disturbed.

His suspicions at once reverted to Vautrot, whose scruples he suspected were slight; and in the morning they were confirmed beyond doubt by a letter from the secretary.  In fact Vautrot, after passing on his part a most wretched night, did not feel his nerves equal in the morning to meeting the reception the Count possibly had in waiting for him.  His letter was skilfully penned to put suspicion to sleep if it had not been fully roused, and if the Countess had not betrayed him.

It announced his acceptance of a lucrative situation suddenly offered him in a commercial house in London.  He was obliged to decide at once, and to sail that same morning for fear of losing an opportunity which could not occur again.  It concluded with expressions of the liveliest gratitude and regret.