What a fool I was to leave him in charge of the post-office!" This last sentence proved a flash of light.

Felicite started up quickly, as though at some sudden thought.

Then she put on a cap and threw a shawl over her shoulders.
"Where are you going, pray ?" her husband asked her with surprise.

"It's past nine o'clock." "You go to bed," she replied rather brusquely, "you're not well; go and rest yourself.

Sleep on till I come back; I'll wake you if necessary, and then we can talk the matter over." She went out with her usual nimble gait, ran to the post-office, and abruptly entered the room where Vuillet was still at work.