The latter granted the prayer by loosening his hold of the carpenter's
neck and seizing him by his vest in such a way as to take away all chance
of escape while leaving him free to speak.

"This letter!" he repeated.

Frightened by the shaking he had just received, and not in a condition to
reflect with his usual prudence, Lambernier mechanically obeyed this
order; he hunted in his pockets for some time, and at last took a
carefully folded paper from his vest-pocket, saying with a stunned air:

"Here it is. It is worth ten louis."

Christian seized the paper and opened it with his teeth, for he could not
use his hands without releasing his prisoner. It was, like all notes of
this kind, without address, seal, or signature. It did not differ from
most of its kind save in the natural beauty of its style and its simple
eloquence. Ardent protestations, sweet and loving complaints, those
precious words that one bestows only upon the woman he loves and which
betray a love that has yet much to desire but as much to hope. The
handwriting was entirely unknown to Bergenheim, but Clemence's name,
which was repeated several times, did not permit him to doubt for a
moment that this note was written to his wife. When he had finished
reading, he put it in his pocket with apparent serenity, and then looked
at Lambernier, who, during this time, had remained motionless under the
hand that detained him.

"You are mistaken, Lambernier," said he to him; "it is one of my letters
before my marriage." And he tried to force himself to smile; but the
muscles of his lips refused to act this falsehood, and drops of cold