One
morning he was so sobbing with his head on the table, when his landlady
tapped at his door. He started up and turned his head away from the
door.
"A young woman from Beaurepaire, monsieur."
"From Beaurepaire?" his heart gave a furious leap. "Show her in."
He wiped his eyes and seated himself at a table, and, all in a flutter,
pretended to be the state's.
It was not Jacintha, as he expected, but the other servant. She made a
low reverence, cast a look of admiration on him, and gave him a letter.
His eye darted on it: his hand trembled as he took it. He turned away
again to open it. He forced himself to say, in a tolerably calm voice,
"I will send an answer."
The letter was apparently from the baroness de Beaurepaire; a mere line
inviting him to pay her a visit. It was written in a tremulous hand.
Edouard examined the writing, and saw directly it was written by Rose.
Being now, naturally enough, full of suspicion, he set this down as an
attempt to disguise her hand. "So," said he, to himself, "this is the
game. The old woman is to be drawn into it, too.
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