alled
the servant just as he was about to put his hand on the knob of the
door. The analogy between her situation and that of Alba struck her
very forcibly. She experienced the sensation which Alba had so often
experienced in connection with Fanny, sympathy with a sorrow so like
her own. She could not give her hand to Madame Steno after what she had
discovered, nor could she speak to her otherwise than to order her
from her house. And to utter before Alba one single phrase, to make
one single gesture which would arouse her suspicions, would be too
implacable, too iniquitous a vengeance! She turned toward the door which
led to her own room, bidding the servant ask his master to come thither.
She had devised a means of satisfying her just indignation without
wounding her dear friend, who was not responsible for the fact that the
two culprits had taken shelter behind her innocence.

Having entered the small, pretty boudoir which led into her bedroom, she
seated herself at her desk, on which was a photograph of Madame Steno,
in a group consisting of Boleslas, Alba, and herself. The photograph
smiled with a smile of superb insolence, which suddenly reawakened in
the outraged woman her frenzy of rancor, interrupted or rather suspended
for several moments by pity. She took the frame in her hands, she cast
it upon the ground, trampling the glass beneath her feet, then she began
to write, on the first blank sheet, one of those notes which passion
alone dares to pen, which does not draw back at every word:

"I know all. For two years you have been my husband's mistress. Do not
deny it. I have read the confession written by your own hand. I do not
wish to see nor to speak to you again. Never again set foot in my house.
On account of your daughter I have not driven you out to-day. A second
time I shall not hesitate."

She was just about to sign Maud Gorka, when the sound of the door
opening and shutting caused her to turn. Boleslas was before her. Upon
his face was an ambiguous expression, which exasperated the unhappy wife
still more. Having returned more than an hour before, he had learned
that Maud had accompanied to the Rue Leopardi Madame Maitland, who was
ill, and he awaited her return with impatience, agitated by the thought
that Florent's sister was no doubt ill owing to the duel of the morrow,
and in that case, Maud, too, would know all. There are conversations
and, above all, adieux which a man who is about to fight a d