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They were love-letters and of every kind, from the note of the adventuress, "I saw you pass yesterday in the Bois, M. le Duc," to the aristocratic reproaches of the last mistress but one, and the complaints of ladies deserted, and the page, still fresh, of recent confidences. Monpavon was in the secret of all these mysteries put a name on each of them: "That is Mme. Moor. Hallo! Mme. d'Athis!"
Madame d'Athis." A confused mass of coronets and initials, passing whims and old habits, sullied at that moment by being thrown together promiscuously, all swallowed up in that ghastly place, by lamplight, with a noise as of an intermittent deluge, going to oblivion by a shameful road. Suddenly Jenkins paused in his work of destruction.
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