“No, no, I swear I haven’t,” he blurted out. But he was choking with suffering, and this sickroom, into which he had suddenly entered unawares, so worked on his feelings that he burst out sobbing and buried his face in the bedclothes to smother the violence of his grief. Nana understood. Rose Mignon had most assuredly decided to send the letter. She let him weep for some moments, and he was shaken by convulsions so fierce that the bed trembled under her. At length in accents of motherly compassion she queried: “You’ve had bothers at your home?” He nodded affirmatively. She paused anew, and then very low: “Then you know all?” He nodded assent. And a heavy silence fell over the chamber of suffering. The night before, on his return from a party given by the empress, he had received the letter Sabine had written her lover. After an atrocious night passed in the meditation of vengeance he had gone out in the morning in order to resist a longing which prompted him to kill his wife. Outside, under a sudden, sweet influence of a fine June morning, he had lost the thread of his thoughts and had come to Nana’s, as he always came at terrible moments in his life. There only he gave way to his misery, for he felt a cowardly joy at the thought that she would console him. “Now look here, be calm!” the young woman continued, becoming at the same time extremely kind. “I’ve known it a long time, but it was certainly not I that would have opened your eyes. You remember you had your doubts last year, but then things arranged themselves, owing to my prudence. In fact, you wanted proofs. The deuce, you’ve got one today, and I know it’s hard lines. Nevertheless, you must look at the matter quietly: you’re not dishonored because it’s happened.” He had left off weeping. A sense of shame restrained him from saying what he wanted to, although he had long ago slipped into the most intimate confessions about his household. She had to encourage him. Dear me, she was a woman; she could understand everything. When in a dull voice he exclaimed: “You’re ill. What’s the good of tiring you? It was stupid of me to have come. I’m going—” “No,” she answered briskly enough. “Stay! Perhaps I shall be able to give you some good advice. Only don’t make me talk too much; the medical man’s forbidden it.” He had ended by rising, and he was now walking up and down the room. Then she questioned him: “Now what are you going to do? “I’m going to box the man’s ears—by heavens, yes!” She pursed up her lips disapprovingly. “That’s not very wise. And about your wife?” “I shall go to law; I’ve proofs.” “Not at all wise, my dear boy. It’s stupid even. You know I shall never let you do that!”