TERS YOU
WILL DO A SERVICE AT ONCE TO YOURSELF AND TO THE UNDERSIGNED, MARIE DE
BRUHL.'

That was all, written in a feminine character, yet it was enough to
perplex me. Simon, who had manifested the liveliest joy at my escape,
would have had me treat it as I had treated the invitation to the Parvis
of the Cathedral; ignore it altogether I mean. But I was of a different
mind, and this for three reasons, among others: that the request was
straightforward, the time early, and the place sufficiently public to be
an unlikely theatre for violence, though well fitted for an interview
to which the world at large was not invited. Then, too, the square lay
little more than a bowshot from my lodging, though on the farther side
of the Rue St. Denys.

Besides, I could conceive many grounds which Madame de Bruhl might have
for seeing me; of which some touched me nearly. I disregarded Simon's
warnings, therefore, and repaired at the time appointed to the place--a
clean, paved square a little off the Rue St. Denys, and entered from
the latter by a narrow passage. It was a spot pleasantly convenient
for meditation, but overlooked on one side by the House of the Little
Sisters; in which, as I guessed afterwards, madame must have awaited me,
for the square when I entered it was empty, yet in a moment, though no
one came in from the street, she stood beside me. She wore a mask and
long cloak. The beautiful hair and perfect complexion, which had filled
me with so much admiration at our first meeting in her house, were
hidden, but I saw enough of her figure and carriage to be sure that it
was Madame de Bruhl and no other.

She began by addressing me in a tone of bitterness, for which I was not
altogether unprepared.

'Well, sir,' she exclaimed, her voice trembling with anger, 'you are
satisfied, I hope, with your work?'

I expected this and had my answer ready. 'I am not aware, Madame,' I
said, 'that I have cause to reproach myself. But, however that may be, I
trust you have summoned me for some better purpose than to chide me for
another's fault; though it was my voice which brought it to light.'

'Why did you shame me publicly?' she retorted, thrusting her
handkerchief to her lips and withdrawing it again with a passionate
gesture.

'Madame,' I answered patiently--I was full of pity for her, 'consider
for a moment the wrong your husband did me and how small and inadequate
was the thing I did to him in return.'

'To him!' she eja