“Ha! the very thing,” he muttered, as he detected the identical letter which he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few days before. “The handwriting struck me, ill-disguised; I thought I knew it; we shall see.”
He had opened the letter; it contained but a few lines: he held his breath while he read it. First he grew pale, then a shadow came over his face, and then another, and another, darker and darker, shade upon shade, as if an exhalation from the pit was momentarily blackening the air about him. He said nothing; there was but one long, gentle sigh, and in his face a mortal sternness, as he folded the letter again, replaced it, and locked the desk.
Of course, when Mademoiselle de Barras returned from her accustomed walk, she found everything in her room, to all appeara
