Bergenheim gave the workman a withering glance, and made a sign for him to continue.

“They were already talking about discharging me from the chateau’s employ; I do not know how it happened, but the thought entered my head that perhaps one of these letters would be of use to me, and I took the first one in the package; I had only time to close the panel when Mademoiselle Justine returned.”

“Very well! what is there in common between these letters and the criminal court that awaits you?” asked Christian, in an altered voice, although he tried to appear indifferent.

“Oh! nothing at all,” replied the carpenter, with an air of indifference; “but I thought that you would not like people to know that Madame had a lover.”

Bergenheim shivered as if he were taken with a chill, and his gun dropped from his hand to the ground.

As quick as thought Lambernier stooped over to seize the gun, but he did not have time to carry out his intention, for he was seized by the throat and half choked by an iron hand.

“That letter! that letter!” said Christian to him, in a low, trembling voice, and he put his face down close to the carpenter’s, as if he feared that a breath of wind might carry away his words and repeat them.

“Let me alone first, I can not breathe—­” stammered the workman, whose face, was becoming purple and his eyes starting out of his head, as if his adversary’s fingers had been a rope.

The latter granted the prayer by loosening his hold of the carpenter’s neck and seizing him by his vest in such a way as to take away all chance of escape while leaving him free to speak.

“This letter!” he repeated.

Frightened by the shaking he had just received, and not in a condition to reflect with his usual prudence, Lambernier mechanically obeyed this order; he hunted in his pockets for some time, and at last took a carefully folded paper from his vest-pocket, saying with a stunned air: 

“Here it is.  It is worth ten louis.”

Christian seized the paper and opened it with his teeth, for he could not use his hands without releasing his prisoner.  It was, like all notes of this kind, without address, seal, or signature.  It did not differ from most of its kind save in the natural beauty of its style and its simple eloquence.  Ardent protestations, sweet and loving complaints, those precious words that one bestows only upon the woman he loves and which betray a love that has yet much to desire but as much to hope.  The handwriting was entirely unknown to Bergenheim, but Clemence’s name, which was repeated several times, did not permit him to doubt for a moment that this note was written to his wife.  When he had finished reading, he put it in his pocket with apparent serenity, and then looked at Lambernier, who, during this time, had remained motionless under the hand that detained him.

“You are mistaken, Lambernier,” said he to him; “it is one of my letters before my marriage.”  And he tried to force himself to smile; but the muscles of his lips refused to act this falsehood, and drops of cold perspiration stood upon his forehead and at the roots of his hair.