at? She knew perfectly well that he would
not believe her, nor so much as move the big back which protected his
repose. She was inclined for a minute to fall upon him, to pummel him,
and scratch him, and rouse him out of his selfish slumbers by shouting
in his ear: 'Leonard, your papers are on fire!' And as the thought of
the papers flashed madly across her mind she almost leaped out of bed.
She had got her eight hundred! The drawers upstairs! How was it she
had not thought of them before? There she lay, till day dawned and the
night-light went out with a sputter, content and motionless, arranging
what she should do, with the look of a thief in her open eyes.

Before the usual hour she was dressed, and all the morning prowled about
the rooms, watching her husband. He talked of going out, but changed his
mind, and went on with his sorting till breakfast. Between his study
and the attic he went to and fro with armfuls of pamphlets, humming a
careless tune. He had not feeling enough to perceive the constrained
agitation which surcharged the air with nervous electricity and played
among the furniture in the cupboards, and upon the handles of the
doors. He worked on undisturbed. At table he was talkative, told
idiotic stories, which she knew by heart, interminable as the process
of crumbling with his knife his favourite cheese. Piece after piece of
cheese he took, and still one anecdote followed another. And when the
time came for going to the Institute, where the Dictionary Committee
was to sit before the regular meeting, how long he took to start! and in
spite of her eagerness to get him off quick, what an age he spent over
every little thing!

The moment he turned the corner of the street, without waiting to shut
the window, she darted to the serving-hatch, crying, 'Corentine, call a
cab, quick!' He was gone at last, and she flew up the little staircase
to the attic.

Crouching down to keep clear of the low ceiling she began to try a bunch
of keys in the lock which fastened the bar of the drawers. She could not
fit it. She could not wait. She would have forced away, without scruple,
a side of the frame, but her fingers gave way and her nails broke. She
wanted something to prise with. She opened the drawer of the card-table:
and there lay three yellow scrawls. They were the very things she
was looking for--the letters of Charles V.! Such miracles do happen
sometimes!

She bent down to the low-arched window to make sure