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while you were keeping so assiduous a watch upon me, I did nothing but say to myself, 'I wonder which she prefers: sweet champagne, dry champagne, or extra-dry?' I was really puzzled. Especially after our departure from Paris. I had lost your tracks, that is to say, I feared that you had lost mine and abandoned the pursuit which was so gratifying to me. When I went for a walk, I missed your beautiful dark eyes, gleaming with hatred under your hair just touched with gray. But, this morning, I understood: the room next to mine was empty at last; and my friend Clarisse was able to take up her quarters, so to speak, by my bedside. From that moment I was reassured. I felt certain that, on coming back--instead of lunching in the restaurant as usual--I should find you arranging my things to your convenience and suiting your own taste. That was why I ordered two covers: one for your humble servant, the other for his fair friend." She was listening to him now and in the greatest terror. So Daubrecq knew that he was spied upon! For a whole week he had seen through her and all her schemes! In a low voice, anxious-eyed, she asked: "You did it on purpose, did you not? You only went away to drag me with you?" "Yes," he said. "But why? Why?" "Do you mean to say that you don't know?" retorted Daubrecq, laughing with a little cluck of delight. She half-rose from her chair and, bending toward him, thought, as she thought each time, of the murder which she could commit, of the murder which she would commit. One revolver-shot and the odious brute was done for. Slowly her hand glided to the weapon concealed in her bodice. Daubrecq said: "One second, dear friend... You can shoot presently; but I beg you first to read this wire which I have just received." She hesitated, not knowing what trap he was laying for her; but he went on, as he produced a telegram: "It's about your son." "Gilbert?" she asked, greatly concerned. "Yes, Gilbert... Here, read it." She gave a yell of dismay. She had read: "Execution on Tuesday morning." And she at once flung herself on Daubrecq, crying: "It's not true!... It's a lie... to madden me... Oh, I know you: you are capable of anything! Confess! It won't be on Tuesday, will it? In two days! No, no... I tell you, we have four days yet, five days, in which to save him... Confess it, confess it!" She had no strength left, exhausted by this fit of rebellion; and her voic
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