"Some one called to see you last night," said Mme. Fortin, a large fat woman, whose nose was always besmeared with snuff, and whose honeyed voice made a marked contrast with her bird-of-prey look.
"Who?"
"A gentleman of about fifty, tall and thin, with a long overcoat, coming down to his heels."
Maxence imagined, from this description, that he recognized his own father. And yet it seemed impossible, after what had happened, that he should dare to show himself on the Boulevard du Temple, where everybody knew him, within a step of the Caf Turc, of which he was one of the oldest customers.
"At what o'clock was he here?" he inquired.
"I really can't tell," answered the landlady. "I was half asleep at the time; but Fortin can tell us."
M. Fortin, who looked about twenty years younger than his wife, was one of those small men, blonde, with scanty beard, a suspicious glance, and uneasy smile, such as the Madame Fortins know how, to find, Heaven knows where.
"The confectioner had just put up his shutters," he replied:
"consequently, it must have been between eleven and a quarter-past eleven."
"And didn't he leave any word?" said Maxence.
"Nothing, except that he was very sorry not to find you in. And, in fact, he did look quite annoyed. We asked him to leave his name; but he said it wasn't worth while, and that he would call again."
At the glance which the landlady was throwing toward him from the corner of her eyes, Maxence understood that she had on the subject of that late visitor the same suspicion as himself.
And, as if she had intended to make it more apparent still, "I ought, perhaps, to have given him your key," she said.
"And why so, pray?"
"Oh! I don't know, an idea of mine, that's all. Besides, Mlle.
Lucienne can probably tell you more about it; for she was there when the gentleman came, and I even think that they exchanged a few words in the yard."
Maxence, seeing that they were only seeking a pretext to question him, took his key, and inquired, "Is - Mlle. Lucienne at home?"
"Can't tell. She has been going and coming all the morning, and I don't know whether she finally staid in or out. One thing is sure, she waited for you last night until after twelve; and she didn't like it much, I can tell you."
Maxence started up the steep stairs; and, as he reached the upper stories, a woman's voice, fresh and beautifully toned, reached his ears more and more distinctly.
She was singing a popular tune, - one of those songs which are monthly put in circulation by the singing cafes "To hope! 0 charming word, Which, during all life, Husband and children and wife Repeat in common accord!
When the moment of success From us ever further slips, 'Tis Hope from its rosy lips Whispers, To-morrow you will bless.
'Tis very nice to run, But to have is better fun."
"She is in," murmured Maxence, breathing more freely.
Reaching the fourth story, he stopped before the door which faced the stairs, and knocked lightly.
At once, the voice, which had just commenced another verse stopped short, and inquired, "Who's there?"
"I, Maxence!"
"At this hour!" replied the voice with an ironical laugh. "That's lucky. You have probably forgotten that we were to go to the theatre last night, and start for St. Germain at seven o'clock this morning."
"Don't you know then?" Maxence began, as soon as he could put in a word.
"I know that you did not come home last night."
"Quite true. But when I have told you -"
"What? the lie you have imagined? Save yourself the trouble."
"Lucienne, I beg of you, open the door."
"Impossible, I am dressing. Go to your own room: as soon as I am dressed, I'll join you."
And, to cut short all these explanations, she took up her song again:
"Hope, I've waited but too long For thy manna divine!
I've drunk enough of thy wine, And I know thy siren song:
Waiting for a lucky turn, I have wasted my best days:
Take up thy magic-lantern And elsewhere display its rays.
Tis very nice to run, But to have is better fun!"