But Felicite did not sit down; she roughly exclaimed: "I want the letter." At this Vuillet's eyes opened widely, with an expression of perfect innocence.
"What letter, madame ?" he asked.
"The letter you received this morning for my husband.

Come, Monsieur Vuillet, I'm in a hurry." And as he stammered that he did not know, that he had not seen anything, that it was very strange, Felicite continued in a covertly threatening voice: "A letter from Paris, from my son, Eugene; you know what I mean, don't you?
I'll look for it myself." Thereupon she stepped forward as if intending to examine the various packets which littered the writing table.

But he at once bestirred himself, and said he would go and see.

The service was necessarily in great confusion! Perhaps, indeed, there might be a letter.

In that case they would find it.