As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she
found herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it
seemed as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it
under the ingenuous gaze of St. Mark.

Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at his
heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had
dropped the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in
the morning Therese's letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put that
one with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained
immovable, dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured;
perhaps it was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from
the tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet.

"Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the
dressmaker's."

Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of Madame
Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish.

All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she
was saying to him: "I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in
love with me." But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a
lover. He had not thought of that. To know that she belonged to another
made him suffer profoundly. And that hand, that little hand dropping the
letter, remained in his eyes and made them burn.

She did not know why he had become suddenly dumb and sombre. When she
saw him throw an anxious glance back at the post-box, she guessed the