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Lacaze knew that he could trust his wife. He knew that she was loyal, incorruptible, holy. Trading upon this holiness, he fairly thrust the lovers into each other’s arms. Before his dominant will the two poor wretches were helpless....

The climax came one beautiful July evening.

Dudoy had been bidden to call for Madeleine and take her to the Café de la Forêt Noire. There the two were to wait till the steeple-jack joined them.

“You know my corner,” he had said. “Take it and sip your syrup until I arrive. I shall not be long, but Notre Dame is ailing. She has a crack, poor lady, in one of her horns. To be frank, it is an awkward business. I hope I shan’t slip. If I did—well, you two would take care of each other, would you not?” He pinched his wife’s ear. “Still, we will hope and pray my poor life may be spared.”

At a quarter to seven, therefore, honest curly-haired René strode down the Rue de Tocqueville, to fold sweet sorrow in his arms. Madame Lacaze was ready, and the two left at once.