heavy load to the novelist, so much the more heavy when he discovered the
calculating plan followed by Boleslas. His tardy penetration permitted
him to review the general outline of their conversation. He perceived
that not one of his interlocutor's sentences, not even the most agitated,
had been uttered at random. From reply to reply, from confidence to
confidence, he, Dorsenne, had become involved in the dilemma without
being able to foresee or to avoid it; he would either have had to accuse
a woman or to lie with one of those lies which a manly conscience does
not easily pardon. He did not forgive himself for it.

"It is so much worse," said he to himself, "as it will prevent nothing.
A person vile enough to pen anonymous letters will not stop there. She
will find the means of again unchaining the madman.... But who wrote
those letters? Gorka may have forged them in order to have an
opportunity to ask me the question he did.... And yet, no.... There are
two indisputable facts--his state of jealousy and his extraordinary
return. Both would lead one to suppose a third, a warning. But given by
whom?.... He told me of twelve anonymous letters.... Let us assume that
he received one or two.... But who is the author of those?"

The immediate development of the drama in which Julien found himself
involved was embodied in the answer to the question. It was not easy to
formulate. The Italians have a proverb of singular depth which the
novelist recalled at that moment. He had laughed a great deal when he
heard sententious Egiste Brancadori repeat it. He repeated it to
himself, and he understood its meaning. 'Chi non sa fingersi amico, non
sa essere nemico. "He who does not know how to disguise himself as a
friend, does not know how to be an enemy." In the little corner of
society in which Countess Steno, the Gorkas and Lincoln Maitland moved,
who was hypocritical and spiteful enough to practise that counsel?