itself to her mind, of that sweet and pure Alba, of that soul as pure as her name, of her whose dearest friend she was.  Since the dread revelation she had thought several times of the young girl.  But her deep sorrow having absorbed all the power of her soul, she had not been able to feel such friendship for the delicate and pretty child.  At the thought of ejecting her rival, as she had the right to do, that sentiment stirred within her.  A strange pity flooded her soul, which caused her to pause in the centre of the large hall, ornamented with statues and columns, which she was in the act of crossing.  She called the servant just as he was about to put his hand on the knob of the door.  The analogy between her situation and that of Alba struck her very forcibly.  She experienced the sensation which Alba had so often experienced in connection with Fanny, sympathy with a sorrow so like her own.  She could not give her hand to Madame Steno after what she had discovered, nor could she speak to her otherwise than to order her from her house.  And to utter before Alba one single phrase, to make one single gesture which would arouse her suspicions, would be too implacable, too iniquitous a vengeance!  She turned toward the door which led to her own room, bidding the servant ask his master to come thither.  She had devised a means of satisfying her just indignation without wounding her dear friend, who was not responsible for the fact that the two culprits had taken shelter behind her innocence.

Having entered the small, pretty boudoir which led into her bedroom, she seated herself at her desk, on which was a photograph of Madame Steno, in a group consisting of Boleslas, Alba, and herself.  The photograph smiled with a smile of superb insolence, which suddenly reawakened in the outraged woman her frenzy of rancor, interrupted or rather suspended for several moments by pity.  She took the frame in her hands, she cast it upon the ground, trampling the glass beneath her feet, then she began to write, on the first blank sheet, one of those notes which passion alone dares to pen, which does not draw back at every word: 

“I know all.  For two years you have been my husband’s mistress.  Do not deny it.  I have read the confession written by your own hand.  I do not wish to see nor to speak to you again.  Never again set foot in my house.  On account of your daughter I have not driven you out to-day.  A second time I shall not hesitate.”

She was just about to sign Maud Gorka, when the sound of the door opening and shutting caused her to turn.  Boleslas was before her.  Upon his face was an ambiguous expression, which exasperated the unhappy wife still more.  Having returned more than an hour before, he had learned that Maud had accompanied to the Rue Leopardi Madame Maitland, who was ill, and he awaited her return with impatience, agitated by the thought that Florent’s sister was no doubt ill owing to the duel of the morrow, and in that case,