Above all, don’t fail to bring me the desired information respecting Dr. Jodon. I am, my dear madame, devotedly yours--V.” Below ran a postscript which read as follows: “When you come on Tuesday bring this letter with you. We will burn it together. Don’t imagine that I distrust you--but there is nothing so dangerous as letters.” For some time Marguerite stood, stunned and appalled by the Marquis de Valorsay’s audacity, and by the language of this letter, which was at once so obscure and so clear, every line of it threatening her future. The reality surpassed her worst apprehensions, but realizing the gravity of the situation, she shook off the torpor stealing over her. She felt that every second was precious, and that she must act, and act at once. But what should she do? Simply return the letter to its place, and continue to act the role of a dupe, as if nothing had happened? No; that must not be. It would be madness not to seize this flagrant proof of the Marquis de Valorsay’s infamy. But on the other hand, if she kept the letter, Madame Leon would immediately discover its loss, and an explanation would be unavoidable. M. de Valorsay would be worsted, but not annihilated, and the plans which made the physician’s intervention a necessity would never be revealed. She thought of hastening to her friend the old magistrate; but he lived a long way off, and time was pressing. Besides she might not find him at home. Then she thought of going to a notary, to a judge. She would show them the letter, and they could take a copy of it. But no--this would do no good--the marquis could still deny it. She was becoming desperate, and was accusing herself of stupidity, when a sudden inspiration illumined her mind, turning night into day, as it were. “Oh, Pascal, we are saved!” she exclaimed. And without pausing to deliberate any longer, she threw a mantle over her shoulders, hastily tied on her bonnet, and hurried from the house, without saying a word to any one. Unfortunately she was not acquainted with this part of Paris, and on reaching the Rue Pigalle she was at a loss for her way. Unwilling to waste any more time, she hastily entered a grocer’s shop at the corner of the Rue Pigalle and the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and anxiously inquired: “Do you know any photographer in this neighborhood, monsieur?” Her agitation made this question seem so singular that the grocer looked at her closely for a moment, as if to make sure that she was not jesting. “You have only to go down the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette,” he replied, “and on the left-hand side, at the foot of the hill, you will find the photographer Carjat.” “Thank you.” The grocer stepped to the door to watch her. “That girl’s certainly light-headed,” he thought.