"Are you acquainted with the ladies who have rooms on the first floor?" he asked with an air of mystery.
"I met them here for the first time," said I.
I believe he doubted me; perhaps waiters are bred to suspicion by the things they see.
"Ah!" said he, "then it does not interest you to know that a gentleman has been to see the young lady?"
I took out ten francs.
"Yes, it does," said I, handing him the money. "Who was it?"
"The Duke of Saint-Maclou," he whispered mysteriously.
"Is he gone?" I asked in some alarm. I had no wish to encounter him.
"This half-hour, sir."
"Did he see both the ladies?"
"No; only the young lady. Madame went out immediately on his arrival, and is not yet returned."
"And mademoiselle?"
"She is in her room."
Thinking I had not got much, save good will, for my ten francs--for he told me nothing but what I had expected to hear--I was about to pa.s.s on, when he added, in a tone which seemed more significant than the question demanded:
"Are you going up to your room, sir?"
"I am," said I.
"Permit me to show you the way," he said--though his escort seemed to me very unnecessary.
He mounted before me. We reached the first floor. Opposite to us, not three yards away, was the door of the sitting-room which I knew to be occupied by the Delha.s.ses.
"Go on," said I.
"In a moment, sir," he said.
Then he held up his hand in the att.i.tude of a man who listens.
"One should not listen," he whispered, apologetically; "but it is so strange. I thought that if you knew the lady--Hark!"
I knew that we ought not to listen. But the mystery of the fellow"s manner and the concern of his air constrained me, and I too paused, listening.
From behind the door there came to our strained attentive ears the sound of a woman sobbing. I sought the waiter"s eyes; they were already bent on me. Again the sad sounds came--low, swift, and convulsive. It went to my heart to hear them. I did not know what to do. To go on upstairs to my own room and mind my own business seemed the simple thing--simple, easy, and proper. But my feet were glued to the boards. I could not go, with that sound beating on my ears: I should hear it all the day. I glanced again at the waiter. He was a kind-looking fellow, and I saw the tears standing in his eyes.
"And mademoiselle is so beautiful!" he whispered.
"What the devil business is it of yours?" said I, in a low but fierce tone.
"None," said he. "I am content to leave it to you, sir;" and without more he turned and went downstairs.
It was all very well to leave it to me; but what--failing that simple, easy, proper, and impossible course of action which I have indicated--was I to do?
Well, what I did was this: I went to the door of the room and knocked softly. There was no answer. The sobs continued. I had been a brute to this girl in the morning; I thought of that as I stood outside.
"My G.o.d! what"s the matter with her?" I whispered.
And then I opened the door softly.
Marie Delha.s.se sat in a chair, her head resting in her hands and her hands on the table; and her body was shaken with her weeping.
And on the table, hard by her bowed golden head, there lay a square leathern box. I stood on the threshold and looked at her.
The rest of the day did not now seem likely to be dull; but it might prove to have in store for me more difficult tasks than the enduring of a little dullness.
CHAPTER VIII.
I Find that I Care.
For a moment I stood stock still, wishing to Heaven that I had not opened the door; for I could find now no excuse for my intrusion, and no reason why I should not have minded my own business. The impulse that had made the thing done was exhausted in the doing of it. Retreat became my sole object; and, drawing back, I pulled the door after me. But I had given Fortune a handle--very literally; for the handle of the door grated loud as I turned it. Despairing of escape, I stood still. Marie Delha.s.se looked up with a start.
"Who"s there?" she cried in frightened tones, hastily pressing her handkerchief to her eyes.
There was no help for it. I stepped inside, saying:
"I"m ashamed to say that I am."
I deserved and expected an outburst of indignation. My surprise was great when she sank against the back of the chair with a sigh of relief. I lingered awkwardly just inside the threshold.
"What do you want? Why did you come in?" she asked, but rather in bewilderment than anger.
"I was pa.s.sing on my way upstairs, and--and you seemed to be in distress."
"Did I make such a noise as that?" said she. "I"m as bad as a child; but children cry because they mustn"t do things, and I because I must."
We appeared to be going to talk. I shut the door.
"My intrusion is most impertinent," said I. "You have every right to resent it."
"Oh, have I the right to resent anything? Did you think so this morning?"
she asked impetuously.
"The morning," I observed, "is a terribly righteous time with me. I must beg your pardon for what I said."