Jules went home, almost calmed by the certainty that he should know the truth on the morrow. As he entered the house, the porter gave him the letter properly resealed. “How do you feel now?” he said to his wife, in spite of the coldness that separated them. “Pretty well, Jules,” she answered in a coaxing voice, “do come and dine beside me.” “Very good,” he said, giving her the letter. “Here is something Fouguereau gave me for you.” Clemence, who was very pale, colored high when she saw the letter, and that sudden redness was a fresh blow to her husband. “Is that joy,” he said, laughing, “or the effect of expectation?” “Oh, of many things!” she said, examining the seal. “I leave you now for a few moments.” He went down to his study, and wrote to his brother, giving him directions about the payment to the widow Gruget. When he returned, he found his dinner served on a little table by his wife’s bedside, and Josephine ready to wait on him. “If I were up how I should like to serve you myself,” said Clemence, when Josephine had left them. “Oh, yes, on my knees!” she added, passing her white hands through her husband’s hair. “Dear, noble heart, you were very kind and gracious to me just now. You did me more good by showing me such confidence than all the doctors on earth could do me with their prescriptions. That feminine delicacy of yours--for you do know how to love like a woman--well, it has shed a balm into my heart which has almost cured me. There’s truce between us, Jules; lower your head, that I may kiss it.” Jules could not deny himself the pleasure of that embrace. But it was not without a feeling of remorse in his heart; he felt himself small before this woman whom he was still tempted to think innocent. A sort of melancholy joy possessed him. A tender hope shone on her features in spite of their grieved expression. They both were equally unhappy in deceiving each other; another caress, and, unable to resist their suffering, all would then have been avowed. “To-morrow evening, Clemence.” “No, no; to-morrow morning, by twelve o’clock, you will know all, and you’ll kneel down before your wife--Oh, no! you shall not be humiliated; you are all forgiven now; you have done no wrong. Listen, Jules; yesterday you did crush me--harshly; but perhaps my life would not have been complete without that agony; it may be a shadow that will make our coming days celestial.” “You lay a spell upon me,” cried Jules; “you fill me with remorse.” “Poor love! destiny is stronger than we, and I am not the accomplice of mine. I shall go out to-morrow.” “At what hour?” asked Jules. “At half-past nine.” “Clemence,” he said, “take every precaution; consult Doctor Desplein and old Haudry.” “I shall consult nothing but my heart and my courage.” “I shall leave you free; you will not see me till twelve o’clock.” “Won’t you keep me company this evening? I feel so much better.”