He had no sooner uttered those words than he interrupted himself with the start of a man who handles a weapon which he thinks unloaded and which suddenly discharges.

It was, really, to discharge a duty in the face of his own scepticism that he had spoken thus, and he did not expect to see another shade of sadness flit across Alba’s mobile and proud face.

There was in the corners of her mouth more disgust, her eyes expressed more scorn, while her hands, busy preparing the tea, trembled as she said, with an accent so agitated that her friend regretted his cruel plan: 

“Ah!  Do not speak of it!  It would be still worse than her present ignorance.  At least, now she knows nothing, and if some miserable person were to do as you say she would know in part without being sure....  How could you smile at such a supposition?....  No!  Poor, gentle Fanny!  I hope she will receive no anonymous letters.  They are so cowardly and make so much trouble!”

“I ask your pardon if I have wounded you,” replied Dorsenne.  He had touched, he felt it, a tender spot in that heart, and perceived with grief that not only had Alba Steno not written the anonymous letters addressed to Gorka, but that, on the contrary, she had received some herself.  From whom?  Who was the mysterious denunciator who had warned in that abominable manner the daughter of Madame Steno after the lover?  Julien shuddered as he continued:  “If I smiled, it was because I believe Mademoiselle Hafner, in case the misfortune should come to her, sensible enough to treat such advice as it merits.  An anonymous letter does not deserve to be read.  Any one infamous enough to make use of weapons of that sort does not deserve that one should do him the honor even to glance at what he has written.”

“Is it not so?” said the girl.  There was in her eyes, the pupils of which suddenly dilated, a gleam of genuine gratitude which convinced her companion that he had seen correctly.  He had uttered just the words of which she had need.  In the face of that proof, he was suddenly overwhelmed by an access of shame and of pity—­of shame, because in his thoughts he had insulted the unhappy girl—­of pity, because she had to suffer a blow so cruel, if, indeed, her mother had been exposed to her.  It must have been on the preceding afternoon or that very morning that she had received the horrible letter, for, during the visit to the Palais Castagna, she had been, by turns, gay and quiet, but so childish, while on that particular evening it was no longer the child who suffered, but the woman.  Dorsenne resumed: 

“You see, we writers are exposed to those abominations.  A book which succeeds, a piece which pleases, an article which is extolled, calls forth from the envious unsigned letters which wound us or those whom we love.  In such cases, I repeat, I burn them unread, and if ever in your life such come to you, listen to me, little Countess, and follow the advice of your friend, Dorsenne, for he is your friend; you know it, do you not, your true friend?”