letters with their lovers once a day, perhaps, from the top of a ladder,
or through a hole in the wall. A letter contains all the poetry their
poor little hearts have to boast of. But the cases we have in hand
require to be dealt with very differently."

"Well, finish," said Montalais, out of patience with him. "Some one may
come."

"Finish! Why, I am only at the beginning. I have still three points as
yet untouched."

"Upon my word, he will be the death of me, with his Flemish
indifference," exclaimed Montalais.

"And you will drive me mad with your Italian vivacity. I was going to
say that our lovers here will be writing volumes to each other. But what
are you driving at?"

"At this. Not one of our lady correspondents will be able to keep the
letters they may receive."

"Very likely."

"M. de Guiche will not be able to keep his either."

"That is probable."

"Very well, then; I will take care of all that."

"That is the very thing that is impossible," said Malicorne.