This time they were dealing with the house, there were urgent repairs to be made and useful ameliorations. As they went round, the architect pointed out the weak spots. A whole plan of restoration formed itself in his head. The days passed. The masons were soon at work. Rose hardly left Leonor's side. They had news of M. Hervart more than once through the newspapers, for his rearrangements at the Louvre had drawn upon him the epigrams of the press; but he himself remained silent. In the circumstances M. Des Boys had resolved to say nothing, to leave time to do its work. Later on, when no dangerous memories of her past love remained in Rose's heart, when she should be married, he would confide her the truth, with a smile. One day Leonor let fall, from the top of a ladder, a pocket-book from which a flood of papers--sketches, bills, letters, picture post-cards --escaped. Rose picked them up, without giving them more than the discreetest glance when Martinvast castle caught her eye. At the loot of the keep she found M. Hervart's "love and kisses." The blood came suddenly to her eyes; she turned the card over and read: "Mademoiselle Gratienne Leboeuf, Rue du Havre, Honfleur." She looked up; Leonor did not seem to have noticed the incident, and with a rapid gesture she folded up the card and slipped it into her bosom. "Monsieur Leonor, you've dropped your pocket-book." Leonor descended his ladder and thanked her, while Rose walked away. When she had disappeared he noticed with delight that she had stolen Martinvast Castle; then, whistling, he climbed up once more to see his workmen. Arrived in her room, Rose sat down, trembling. "I have made a mistake," she said to herself. "It isn't possible. And how could it have come into Leonor's hands?" She extracted the card from its hiding-place, unfolded it and looked at it, trembling. "It's his writing all right." She still felt doubtful. "What's the date?" She deciphered it without difficulty. "Cherbourg, 31 July, 1903." "The very day we went to the Liais Garden, the day we went up that tower where I almost fainted with love.... I was so happy!" She began crying. Through her tears she looked at her hands, turning them, looking at all the fingers one after another. She looked as though she were rediscovering them, taking possession of them once more. Finally she got up and stamped her foot. "Very well then, I don't love him any more. There! Good-bye, Monsieur Hervart. You deceived me, I shall never forgive you. And I had such confidence in him; I let myself rest so softly on his heart." She was still crying. "Now, I am ashamed...." And she felt her body, from head to feet, as though to take possession of it also. She would have liked to press it, to wring it so that all the caresses, all the kisses which had sunk into her skin, penetrated her veins, thrilled her nerves, might be drained out of it.