I was just out of bed when he came into my room.

"Can you tell me what is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

He had in his hand one of the official registers. In his nervous
crises he always began sorting them over, in the hope of finding some
pretext for making himself militarily insupportable.

This time chance had favored him.

He opened the register. I blushed violently at seeing the poor proof
of a photograph that I knew well.

"What is that?" he repeated disdainfully.

Too often I had surprised him in the act of regarding, none too
kindly, the portrait of Mlle. de C. which hung in my room not to be
convinced at that moment that he was trying to pick a quarrel with me.

I controlled myself, however, and placed the poor little print in the
drawer.

But my calmness did not pacify him.

"Henceforth," he said, "take care, I beg you, not to mix mementoes of
your gallantry with the official papers."

He added, with a smile that spoke insult: