houses, the paper of which and the manner of folding suggested the office
and hasty despatch, he discovered one smaller one, carefully sealed, and
hidden so cunningly between the others that at first he did not notice
it. He recognized instantly that long, fine, firm writing,--To Monsieur
Risler--Personal. It was Sidonie's writing! When he saw it he felt the
same sensation he had felt in the bedroom upstairs.

All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayed husband poured back into
his heart with the frantic force that makes assassins. What was she
writing to him? What lie had she invented now? He was about to open the
letter; then he paused. He realized that, if he should read that, it
would be all over with his courage; so he leaned over to the old cashier,
and said in an undertone:

"Sigismond, old friend, will you do me a favor?"

"I should think so!" said the worthy man enthusiastically. He was so
delighted to hear his friend speak to him in the kindly voice of the old
days.

"Here's a letter someone has written me which I don't wish to read now.
I am sure it would interfere with my thinking and living. You must keep
it for me, and this with it."

He took from his pocket a little package carefully tied, and handed it to
him through the grating.

"That is all I have left of the past, all I have left of that woman.
I have determined not to see her, nor anything that reminds me of her,
until my task here is concluded, and concluded satisfactorily,--I need