And Villefaramir, dossiers under the arm and hat in hand, directed himself towards his wife's apartments.
Mme. de Villefaramir was seated on an ottoman, and was leafing impatiently through some journals that Thibaut had cut up after overdosing on catnip, before she had even managed to finish reading them. She was dressed to go out.
"How pale you are, monsieur!" she cried. "Have you been working all night on the case of the homicidal librarian again?"
"Madame, where do you put the poison you normally use?" articulated the magistrate clearly and without preamble, standing between his wife and the door.
Mme. de Villefaramir experienced what the lark must experience when she sees the sparrowhawk saw the aether with his murderous circles.
"Monsieur, I do not... do not understand," said she.
"I ask," continued Villefaramir perfectly calmly, "where you hide the poison by the aid whereof you have slain my father-in-law and mother-in-law, M. and Mme. d'Imrahil; my servant Barahier, and my daughter Valartine."
The pallor of that woman was a terrible sight, the anguish of her regard, the trembling of her whole body. "Ah monsieur!" she cried; and that was all.
