The letter posted by René at Saint-Cloud had duly reached its destination on the morning of the day that was to complete poor Rosalie's unhappiness. Suzanne had received it with the rest of her correspondence a few minutes before her husband entered her room to get his morning cup of tea, and she was just engaged in reading it when Paul's kind and jovial face appeared in the doorway. '_Bon jour_, Suzon,' he cried in his deep but cheery voice, adding, as he sometimes did, 'my fair rose.' This allusion to de Musset's well-known romance was always accompanied by a kiss. In Paul's eyes de Musset was the embodiment of youth and love, with just a spice of suggestiveness, and it was the favourite joke of this simple-hearted fellow to look upon himself as Suzanne's lover, and not as a lawful spouse. He was one of those strange husbands who say to you in confidence, 'I have no secrets from my wife--that is the only way to cure her of curiosity.' Meanwhile, he was as much in love with his 'fair rose' as ever, and proved it by the manner in which he tenderly kissed her on the neck. But she checked further demonstrations of affection with the words, 'Get along! See to the tea, and let me finish my letter.' She knew that Paul would never ask her anything about her correspondence, and it gave her such intense pleasure to read the poet's ardent phrases that she was not satisfied with going over them once, but read them a second time, and then, folding up the letter, slipped it into her bodice. She looked so supremely happy as she sat down to the table and took up the fine porcelain cup filled with fragrant tea that Moraines, wishing to tease her, said, in a voice that was meant to be gruff, 'If I were a jealous husband, I should think you had received a letter from your sweetheart, you look so happy, madame. And if you knew how nice you look like that,' he added, kissing her arm just above the wrist, where the delicate pink skin, perfumed and warmed by her luxurious bath, looked so inviting. 'Well, sir, you would be right,' she replied, with a roguish air. Women take a divine pleasure in saying in fun things which, though true, will not be believed. It procures them that mild sensation of danger which titillates their nerves so delightfully. 'I hope this sweetheart of yours is a nice fellow?' asked Paul, quite amused by what he considered a good joke. 'Very nice.' 'And may I know his name?' 'You are too inquisitive. Guess.' 'Bless me--no!' cried Paul. 'I should have too much to do. Ah! Suzanne,' he added, suddenly changing his tone to one that betrayed deep feeling, 'what pain it must be to harbour suspicions! Just fancy me being jealous of you, and having to sit in the office all day whilst my heart was being torn by doubts! Ah! well,' this with a shrewd look, 'I would set Desforges to watch you!'