He turned the letter this way and that, examining first the back of it and then the front.
"It has not been through the post," he said to the Abbe, who stood respectfully watching his face, which, indeed, inspired little confidence, for the chin receded in the wrong way--not like the chin of a shark, which indicates, not foolishness, but greed of gain--and the eyes were large and pale like those of a sheep.
"Oh, Heaven forbid!" cried the Abbe.

"Such a letter as that! Where should we all be if it were read by the government?
And all know that letters passing through the post to the address of such as Monsieur Albert are read in passing--by the Prince President himself, as likely as not." Albert gave a short, derisive laugh, and shrugged his shoulders, which made his admiring mother throw back her head with a gesture, inviting the Abbe to contemplate, with satisfaction, the mother of so brave a man.
"Voila," she said, "but tell us, my son, what is in the letter ?" "Not yet," was the reply.

"It is to be read to all when they are assembled.

In the mean time--" He did not finish the sentence in words, but by gesture conveyed that the missive, now folded and placed in his breast-pocket, was only to be obtained bespattered with his life's blood.

And the Abbe wiped his clammy brow with some satisfaction that it should be thus removed from his own timorous custody.
Albert de Chantonnay was looking expectantly at the door, for he had heard footsteps, and now he bowed gravely to a very old gentleman, a notary of the town, who entered the room with a deep obeisance to the Comtesse.