He returned in a minute, having in his hand three envelopes. André, who threw a glance at the first two, saw at once from whom they came. The third was in an unknown hand. It had been addressed to Lunéville, from Paris, then sent on to Riom. The count opened it, and read the three lines which Sixte had written before taking the train for Riom. The hands of this brave officer who did not know the meaning of the word fear, began to tremble. He became as pale as the paper which he held in his trembling hands, so pale that Pourat said to him with fear: “My captain is ill.” “Leave me,” said the count brusquely. “I will dress myself alone.” He had need to recover from the sudden blow which had just struck him. There was some one in the world who knew the terrible secret, some one who knew the mystery of Charlotte’s death and who was not Robert Greslon, for he had seen some of the young man’s writing and this was quite unlike it. This was a shock of terror such as the most courageous might feel before a fact so absolutely unexpected that it takes on a supernatural character. If the brother of Charlotte had seen his sister, alive there before him, he could not have been more prostrated with astonishment. Some one knew of the suicide of the young girl, and of the letter written by her before her death, and possibly all the rest. And this some one, this mysterious witness of the truth, what did he think of him? The question with which the note ended told plainly enough. Suddenly the count remembered what he had dared to do. He remembered the letter thrown into the fire, and the purple of shame rushed to his cheeks. The resolution, taken the evening before, could not be kept. That any man should have the right to say: “The Count de Jussat has committed a cowardly act,” was more than this gentleman so proud of his honor, was able to endure. The trouble of the night before, that he had believed ended, revived, and was rendered more intolerable by the return of his father who said: