“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 pass 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 Delhasses.

“Go on,” said I.

“In a moment, sir,” he said.

Then he held up his hand in the attitude 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 God! what’s the matter with her?” I whispered.

And then I opened the door softly.

Marie Delhasse 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.