Suddenly she arose.

Without stopping to put on her dressing-gown, she lighted a candle by the night-lamp, pushed the bolt of her door and then went to the windows, the space between them forming a rather deep projection on account of the thickness of the walls.

A portrait of the Duke of Bordeaux hung there; she raised it and pressed a button concealed in the woodwork.
A panel opened, showing a small empty space.

The shelf in this sort of closet contained only a rosewood casket.

She opened this mysterious box and took from it a package of letters, then returned to her bed with the eagerness of a miser who is about to gaze upon his treasures.
Had she not struggled and prayed?
Had she not offered upon the tyrannical altar of duty as an expiation, tears, pale cheeks and a tortured soul?
Had she not just taken a solemn vow, in the presence of God and herself, which should protect her against her weakness?
Was she not a virtuous wife, and had she not paid dearly enough for a moment of sad happiness?
Was it a crime to breathe for an instant the balmy air of love through the gratings of this prison-cell, the doors of which she had just locked with her own hand?
Admirable logic for loving hearts, which, not being able to control their feelings, suffer in order to prove themselves less guilty, and clothe themselves in haircloth so that each shudder may cause a pain that condones the sin! Being at peace with herself, she read as women read who are in love; leaning her head upon her hand, she drew out the letters, one by one, from her bosom where she had placed them.