The revelation which had just taken place, irritated much more than it surprised the Count de Commarin.

For twenty years, he had been constantly expecting to see the truth brought to light.

He knew that there can be no secret so carefully guarded that it may not by some chance escape; and his had been known to four people, three of whom were still living.
He had not forgotten that he had been imprudent enough to trust it to paper, knowing all the while that it ought never to have been written.
How was it that he, a prudent diplomat, a statesman, full of precaution, had been so foolish?
How was it that he had allowed this fatal correspondence to remain in existence! Why had he not destroyed, at no matter what cost, these overwhelming proofs, which sooner or later might be used against him?
Such imprudence could only have arisen from an absurd passion, blind and insensible, even to madness.
So long as he was Valerie's lover, the count never thought of asking the return of his letters from his beloved accomplice.

If the idea had occurred to him, he would have repelled it as an insult to the character of his angel.

What reason could he have had to suspect her discretion?
None.