"Must not!" repeated the little man, querulously. "That is very fine, but who is to keep him away? It appears to me that there was never such a world as this for gossip. Instead of minding their own affairs, people talk, talk, like so many parrots, and who is to make sure that their mischievous tongues will not one day carry the news to the wrong person?" His wife darted a contemptuous glance at him. "It is a lottery, as I told you before," she said coldly. "One or other must lose." "And you talk of it so calmly! Do you know what a frightful risk I run? If M. Saint-Martin comes home, and the little hindrances I have put in his way are discovered--or if that girl finds out the double payment, I am ruined! I shudder when I think of it." He was shuddering. It was a hot June day, and he shivered as if he had the ague. Madame looked at him with still the same expression in her face. "You are a coward, Ignace," at last she said, letting her words drop slowly, "and that makes you a fool. Do you suppose that I have not weighed the risk? Do you suppose that I am not watching?" Under her eyes he shivered more visibly. "I know," he said in a submissive voice; "I only thought--" "Do not think," she interrupted contemptuously; "leave thinking to me." "He might write to her," M. Roulleau muttered under his breath. "What are you saying?" "Do not be angry, Zenobie; I only remarked that he might write to her." "Here?" "No; to Chateau Ardron. In that case, _mon amie_," continued the little man, apologetically, "permit me to observe that the letter would be forwarded to Monsieur Deshoulieres." Madame sighed. "I do not think I shall ever be able to educate you," she said; "I must soon give it up. And you can actually assert that such a danger has only just struck you, and that all this time you have taken no precaution against it. _Hein_! look here!" Her tone rose peremptory and shrill. M. Roulleau looked obediently at the copy of the letter she flourished before his eyes, and then admiringly at her. "You are a marvel!" he said in his feeble, abject voice. "I made her write it," she said, still shrilly. "Bah, she is only too easy to manage, there is no satisfaction, one had but to work on her fears. Her letters will be sent here, and I think, monsieur, you will acknowledge that I can arrange who shall be the receiver?" "I acknowledge every thing," he said, with a deprecating gesture. "Perhaps you may be relieved to know," she continued, returning to her cold measured tones, "that I took further steps at the same time. It would be inconvenient if other letters reached M. Deshoulieres. I requested, therefore, in his name, that all documents which might arrive should be forwarded to you. By this means we control one channel of communication." "But, Zenobie, my angel--" "Well? more scruples?" "You said in his name?" "Exactly." "But--suppose he should find it out?"