In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. ’ ‘Also madame his wife—’ Charvill’s gorge rose. I believe I am getting impudent. And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity.
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