"Ah," said M. de Rênal, lifting up his eyebrows inordinately. "What, did Julien tell you that?" "Not exactly, he always talked of the vocation which calls him to the holy ministry, but believe me, the first vocation for those lower-class people is getting their bread and butter. He gave me to understand that he was quite aware of her secret visits." "And I--I was ignorant," exclaimed M. de Rênal, growing as angry as before and accentuating his words. "Things take place in my house which I know nothing about.... What! has there been anything between Elisa and Valenod?" "Oh, that's old history, my dear," said Madame de Rênal with a smile, "and perhaps no harm has come of it. It was at the time when your good friend Valenod would not have minded their thinking at Verrières that a perfectly platonic little affection was growing up between him and me." "I had that idea once myself," exclaimed M. de Rênal, furiously striking his head as he progressed from discovery to discovery, "and you told me nothing about it." "Should one set two friends by the ears on account of a little fit of vanity on the part of our dear director? What society woman has not had addressed to her a few letters which were both extremely witty and even a little gallant?" "He has written to you?" "He writes a great deal." "Show me those letters at once, I order you," and M. de Rênal pulled himself up to his six feet. "I will do nothing of the kind," he was answered with a sweetness verging on indifference. "I will show you them one day when you are in a better frame of mind." "This very instant, odds life," exclaimed M. de Rênal, transported with rage and yet happier than he had been for twelve hours. "Will you swear to me," said Madame de Rênal quite gravely, "never to quarrel with the director of the workhouse about these letters?" "Quarrel or no quarrel, I can take those foundlings away from him, but," he continued furiously, "I want those letters at once. Where are they?" "In a drawer in my secretary, but I shall certainly not give you the key." "I'll manage to break it," he cried, running towards his wife's room. He did break in fact with a bar of iron a costly secretary of veined mahogany which came from Paris and which he had often been accustomed to wipe with the nap of his coat, when he thought he had detected a spot. Madame de Rênal had climbed up at a run the hundred and twenty steps of the dovecot. She tied the corner of a white handkerchief to one of the bars of iron of the little window. She was the happiest of women. With tears in her eyes she looked towards the great mountain forest. "Doubtless," she said to herself, "Julien is watching for this happy signal."