“And more,” said the officer. “That caprice of the old Baron’s cost four persons their lives. Oh! such passions as these are like the cholera!” “What had you to say to me?” asked the Baron, who took this indirect warning very ill. “Oh! why should I deprive you of your illusions?” replied the officer. “Men rarely have any left at your age!” “Rid me of them!” cried the Councillor. “You will curse the physician later,” replied the officer, smiling. “I beg of you, monsieur.” “Well, then, that woman was in collusion with her husband.” “Oh!----” “Yes, sir, and so it is in two cases out of every ten. Oh! we know it well.” “What proof have you of such a conspiracy?” “In the first place, the husband!” said the other, with the calm acumen of a surgeon practised in unbinding wounds. “Mean speculation is stamped in every line of that villainous face. But you, no doubt, set great store by a certain letter written by that woman with regard to the child?” “So much so, that I always have it about me,” replied Hulot, feeling in his breast-pocket for the little pocketbook which he always kept there. “Leave your pocketbook where it is,” said the man, as crushing as a thunder-clap. “Here is the letter.--I now know all I want to know. Madame Marneffe, of course, was aware of what that pocketbook contained?” “She alone in the world.” “So I supposed.--Now for the proof you asked for of her collusion with her husband.” “Let us hear!” said the Baron, still incredulous. “When we came in here, Monsieur le Baron, that wretched creature Marneffe led the way, and he took up this letter, which his wife, no doubt, had placed on this writing-table,” and he pointed to the _bonheur-du-jour_. “That evidently was the spot agreed upon by the couple, in case she should succeed in stealing the letter while you were asleep; for this letter, as written to you by the lady, is, combined with those you wrote to her, decisive evidence in a police-court.” He showed Hulot the note that Reine had delivered to him in his private room at the office. “It is one of the documents in the case,” said the police-agent; “return it to me, monsieur.” “Well, monsieur,” replied Hulot with bitter expression, “that woman is profligacy itself in fixed ratios. I am certain at this moment that she has three lovers.” “That is perfectly evident,” said the officer. “Oh, they are not all on the streets! When a woman follows that trade in a carriage and a drawing-room, and her own house, it is not a case for francs and centimes, Monsieur le Baron. Mademoiselle Esther, of whom you spoke, and who poisoned herself, made away with millions.--If you will take my advice, you will get out of it, monsieur. This last little game will have cost you dear. That scoundrel of a husband has the law on his side. And indeed, but for me, that little woman would have caught you again!” “Thank you, monsieur,” said the Baron, trying to maintain his dignity.