Octave finished the two or three lines which remained to be copied, and
handed the sheet to Bergenheim. The latter looked at it attentively,
then carefully folded it and put it in his pocket.

"I thank you, Monsieur," said he, "I will leave you to your friendly
duties."

There was something so solemn in the calm accent of these words, and the
polite bow which accompanied them, that Gerfaut felt chilled, though not
alarmed, for he did not understand.

When he reached his room, Bergenheim opened the paper which Gerfaut had
just given him and compared it with the letter he had received from
Lambernier. The suspicions which a separate examination had aroused were
confirmed upon comparing the two letters; no doubt was possible; the
letter and the poetry were written by the same hand!

After a few moments' reflection, Christian went to his wife's room.

Clemence was seated in an armchair, near the fireplace, indulging in a
revery. Although her lover was not there, she was still under the charm
of this consuming as well as intellectual passion, which responded to the
yearnings of her heart, the delicacy of her tastes, and the activity of
her imagination. At this moment, she was happy to live; there was not a
sad thought that these words, "He loves me!" could not efface.

The noise of the opening door aroused her from her meditation. Madame de
Bergenheim turned her head with a look of vexation, but instead of the
servant whom she was ready to reprimand, she saw her husband. The
expression of impatience imprinted upon her face gave way to one of