secret in the household, and he felt angry and
humiliated that this secret had not been intrusted to his discretion.
And if he had discovered nothing, it was because M. de Chalusse had been
caution personified, as Madame Leon had declared.

Thus it happened that when M. Casimir saw Mademoiselle Marguerite
and the count searching in the garden for the fragments of a letter
destroyed in a paroxysm of rage which he had personally witnessed,
his natural curiosity was heightened to such a degree as to become
unendurable. He would have given a month's wages, and something over,
to have known the contents of that letter, the fragments of which were
being so carefully collected by the count. And when he heard M. de
Chalusse tell Mademoiselle Marguerite that the most important part
of the letter was still lacking, and saw his master relinquish his
fruitless search, the worthy valet vowed that he would be more skilful
or more fortunate than his master; and after diligent effort, he
actually succeeded in recovering five tiny scraps of paper, which had
been blown into the shrubbery.

They were covered with delicate handwriting, a lady's unquestionably;
but he was utterly unable to extract the slightest meaning from them.
Nevertheless, he preserved them with jealous care, and was careful
not to say that he had found them. The incoherent words which he had
deciphered on these scraps of paper mixed strangely in his brain, and
he grew more and more anxious to learn what connection there was between
this letter and the count's attack. This explains his extreme readiness
to search the count's clothes when Mademoiselle Marguerite told him to
look for the key of the escritoire. And fortune favored him, for he not
only found the key, but he also discovered the torn fragments of
the letter, and having crumpled them up in the palm of his hand, he
contrived to slip them into his pocket. Fruitless dexterity! M. Casimir
had joined these scraps to the fragments he had found himself, he had
read and re-read the epistle, but it told him nothing; or, at least, the
information it conveyed was so vague and incomplete that it heightened
his curiosity all the more. Once he almost decided to give the letter
to Mademoiselle Marguerite, but he resisted this impulse, saying to
himself: "Ah, no; I'm not such a fool! It might be of use to her."

And M. Casimir had no desire to be of service to this unhappy girl, who
had always treated him with kindness. He