She was in a jocular mood, ready to find everything amusing and grotesque; at heart, she had an impression of being at last cured and delivered from the crisis. She had a spontaneous feeling of gratitude for Boerzell. Was it not to a certain extent to this worthy young man that she owed this miracle? Had he not consoled her, distracted her, as if she had been a weeping child, with the sparkle of his conjugal thesis, the unusualness of his speeches and the insistent warmth of his voice? But for him, for that blend of comic and sound reason which emanated from his person and which now survived their conversation, she would probably still be desperately fighting the fever of evil, and exhausting herself in the dangerous nightmares of her unsatisfied desires. Could she have been, but for Boerzell, even amused by the worldly ambitions of her uncle, or by his sly waggery, or by anything at all? Poor Boerzell! She could never bring herself to accept him, to overcome the repulsion which his bearded old schoolboy's face inspired in her. Nevertheless, who knew but that he might help her in the hours of her distress, might become a friend, a faithful comrade who would render her solitude less mournful, less forsaken? She walked up and down her room, working herself up with such hopes. Brigitte had to knock twice at the door before she could inform her that dinner was served. CHAPTER XI "His brother ... M. Raindal's brother!" Mme. Chambannes murmured dreamily, leaning on the edge of her bed. Her lace-edged pillow made a soft frame for her scattered curls. Distractedly she gathered together the rest of her mail. There was an advertisement of a perfume house, a modiste's bill which she thrust aside with a disgusted pout, two newspapers and, under them, a closed letter-card. It was a strange card; the address was written in awkward capitals falling over each other--the suspicious appearance of an anonymous letter! Zozé tore it open slowly. Sensations of weakness vibrated along her arms. She read the following lines, traced on the gray paper in characters similar to those on the outside: _Should you have nothing better to do some morning, pass, towards 11 o'clock, the rue Godot-De Mauroi, in the neighborhood of number 12 bis; you will once more ascertain that the friends of our lady-friends are our friends._ She fell back, one hand over her heart as if to shield a wound; she had not a doubt, felt no hope. She remained motionless at first, her eyes closed; then she began to stammer indistinctly. "Oh!... oh!... oh! mon Dieu!... The wicked people! What an atrocious wickedness!" A burning sensation was in her heart, and every query she invented, every possibility seemed a new burn that made her wound deeper. They were denouncing Gerald, of course; but the woman, the mean wretch, the unknown betrayer--who could she be?