Chapter 32 Section 31

If Chantal knew that Jean-Marc was unfaithful to her, she could bear it, but it would be in line with what she had in mind, although this spy-like, police-like test was nothing like the Jean-Marc she knew. style.When they met, he asked to know nothing, wanted to hear nothing about her past.She was in conflict again.She never kept anything secret from him, except for things he didn't want to hear.She doesn't understand why, and he suddenly becomes suspicious of her and starts spying on him. She suddenly remembered how those words about the crimson cardinal's cloak had awakened her, and she felt a little ashamed.How easily she accepts the opinions others have planted in her mind!How ridiculous was she acting in front of him?He caged her like a mouse and watched her reactions cruelly and amusedly.

What if she is wrong?When she thought she had taken off the correspondent's mask, hadn't she already missed it twice?She dug out some old letters from Jean-Marc to her, and compared them with those signed by c.d.b.Jean-Marc's hand sloped slightly to the right, and was very small; the stranger's hand was almost a size larger than that, and sloped to the left.But obviously, too obvious a difference is a sign of deceit.When a person wants to change his handwriting, the first thing that comes to mind is the direction and size of the slant.Chantal tried to compare the letters "f", "a", "o" written by Jean-Marc and the stranger. She found that despite their different sizes, their structure looked very similar. But when she continued to compare When she went down, she became more and more uncertain. (Ou) No, she is not an appraiser, how can she be sure?

She selected the letter from Jean-Marc and a letter signed by c.d.b., and put them in her handbag.What about the others?Looking for a safer place to hide?Why bother?Jean-Marc knew them, he even knew where she kept them.She couldn't let him know that she was aware of being watched.So she put them back in their old place in the closet. She came to a psychological counseling service company and rang the doorbell.A young man in black came out to meet her.He led her down a corridor to the door of an office.Behind the desk in that office sat a muscular man in a shirt.The young man walked to the wall and stood with his hands down.The muscular man stood up and shook her hand.

He returned to his seat and sat down.She also sat down in a chair with handles opposite him.She spread the letters from Jean-Marc and the c.d.b. on the table.When she explained with some embarrassment what she was trying to figure out, the man said, his voice seemed to come from far away: "I can give you a psychoanalysis of that person you know, But it's hard to get a psychoanalysis out of fake handwriting." "I don't need any psychological analysis. I know the psychology of the man who wrote this letter very well. If, my judgment is correct, he really wrote these letters."

"All you want to know, as I understand it, is to be sure that the person who wrote the letter - your lover or husband - is the same person who changed his handwriting in another letter and you want to expose him." "Not exactly," she said uncomfortably. "Not quite, but basically. However, ma'am, I'm a handwriting psychologist, not a private detective, and I'm not in partnership with the police." The conversation froze, the room fell silent, but neither of the two men seemed intent on breaking it, for neither one sympathized with her. She felt a wave of heat rushing through her body, a powerful, surging, rapidly expanding heat.She was hot all over, and the skin all over her body turned red.The words about the cardinal's cloak flashed through her mind again, and in fact she was now wearing a magnificent cloak woven of embarrassment.

"You have come to the wrong place," he went on, "this is not the den." All at once she heard the word "inform," which turned her cloak of embarrassment into a cloak of shame.She stood up and wanted to take back the two letters.But before she could put them away, the young man who had brought her in came behind the table and stood beside the muscular man.He looked carefully at the handwriting of the letter. "Of course it's the same person." He said to her. "Look, this t, and this g." Suddenly, she recognized him.This young man was the waiter in the café in Normandy.When she recognized him, she heard a shocked voice in her hot body: But this whole thing, it's not true!It's an illusion, it's an illusion!It can't be true!

The young man picked up his head, looked at her (as if he wanted her to see his face better so she could be sure), and said with a flirty, disdainful smile: Indeed it is!This is the handwriting of the same person.He just made the letters bigger and slanted them to the left. " She couldn't hear anything, the word "inform" excluded all other words.She felt like a woman who denounced her lover to the police.She played a witness who discovers a hair from an adulterous bed sheet.After putting away the letter, she turned and walked away without saying a word.And the young man changed his position at some point, standing at the door and opening the door for her.She was only six or seven steps away from the door, but that distance seemed so far away.She blushed.She felt burning all over her body.She was drenched with sweat.The man standing in front of her was so young, and he stared at her poor body with haughty eyes.Under that young man's gaze, she felt herself growing older faster than ever.In full view.

The situation now looks so similar to that day in the seaside café in Normandy.That day, with a flattering smile, he blocked her way out.At that time, she worried that she would not be able to leave.And now, she waited for him to use the same means as that day.But this time, he still stood politely by the office door, waiting for her to pass.She staggered like a young woman in love through the hall to the street door (she felt his eyes on her damp back).When she finally stepped on the steps outside the door, she had the feeling of escape from the tiger's mouth.