Henriette.  Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so completely.

Maurice.  That’s the result of thinking too well of one’s fellow beings.  This is all you get out of it.  But do you know, I suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, must be a full-fledged scoundrel.

Henriette.  You mean the Abbe, who was taking the part of a private detective.

Maurice.  That’s what I mean.  That man has to receive all kinds of confessions.  And note you:  Adolphe himself told us he had been at the Church of St. Germain that morning.  What was he doing there?  He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate.  And then the priest put the questions together for the Commissaire.

Henriette.  Tell me something:  do you trust Adolphe?

Maurice.  I trust no human being any longer.

Henriette.  Not even Adolphe?

Maurice.  Him least of all.  How could I trust an enemy—­a man from whom I have taken away his mistress?

Henriette.  Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I’ll give you some data about our friend.  You heard he had returned that medal from London.  Do you know his reason for doing so?

Maurice.  No.

Henriette.  He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a penitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction.

Maurice.  Can that he possible?  But what has he done?

Henriette.  He has committed a crime of the kind that is not punishable under the law.  That’s what he gave me to understand indirectly.

Maurice.  He, too!  He, the best one of all, the model man, who never speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything.

Henriette.  Well, there you can see that we are no worse than others.  And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils were after us.

Maurice.  He, also!  Then mankind has not been slandered—­But if he has been capable of one crime, then you may expect anything of him.  Perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday.  Coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us when he saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insisted that those fellows were not detectives.  But, of course, you may expect anything from a deceived lover.

Henriette.  Could he be as mean as that?  No, it is impossible, impossible!

Maurice.  Why so?  If he is a scoundrel?—­What were you two talking of yesterday, before I came?

Henriette.  He had nothing but good to say of you.

Maurice.  That’s a lie!

Henriette. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen.  There is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever—­ for what reason, I don’t know.  Have you thought of Madame Catherine’s wavering attitude in this matter?  Didn’t she say finally that she believed you capable of anything?