“Empty as an egg-shell, madame.”

“Not even the miniature of her sister?”

“Not even the miniature of her sister.”

“Of her sister?” repeated Madame Depine.

“Yes; did I never tell you of her?  A handsome creature, but she threw her bonnet over the mills.”

“But I thought that was the Princess.”

“The Princess, too.  Her bonnet will also be found lying there.”

“No, no; I mean I thought the portrait was the Princess’s.”

Madame la Proprietaire laughed.  “She told you so?”

“No, no; but—­but I imagined so.”

“Without doubt, she gave you the idea. Quelle farceuse! I don’t believe there ever was a Princess.  The family was always inflated.”

All Madame Depine’s world seemed toppling.  Somehow her own mistake added to her sense of having been exploited.

“Still,” said Madame la Proprietaire with a shrug, “it is only three weeks’ rent.”

“If you lose it, I will pay!” Madame Depine had an heroic burst of faith.

“As you please.  But I ought to have been on my guard.  Where did she take the funds for a grey wig?”

“Ah, the brown wig!” cried Madame Depine, joyfully.  “She must have left that behind, and any coiffeur will give you three weeks’ rent for that alone.”

“We shall see,” replied Madame la Proprietaire, ambiguously.

The trio mounted the stairs, and hunted high and low, disturbing the peaceful spider-webs.  They peered under the very bed.  Not even the old block was to be seen.  As far as Madame Valiere’s own chattels were concerned, the room was indeed “empty as an egg-shell.”

“She has carried it away with the three weeks’ rent,” sneered Madame la Proprietaire.  “In my own carpet-bag,” she added with a terrible recollection.

“She wished to wear it at night against the hard back of the carriage, and guard the other all glossy for the wedding.”  Madame Depine quavered pleadingly, but she could not quite believe herself.

“The wedding had no more existence than the Princess,” returned Madame la Proprietaire, believing herself more and more.

“Then she will have cheated me out of the grey wig from the first,” cried Madame Depine, involuntarily.  “And I who sacrificed myself to her!”

“Comment! It was your wig?”

“No, no.”  She flushed and stammered.  “But enfin—­and then, oh, heaven! my brooch!”

“She has stolen your brooch?”

Great tears rolled down the wrinkled, ashen cheeks.  So this was her reward for secretly instructing the coiffeur to make the “Princess’s” wig first.  The Princess, indeed!  Ah, the adventuress!  She felt choking; she shook her fist in the air.  Not even the brooch to show when her family came up from Tonnerre, to say nothing of the wig.  Was there a God in the world at all?  Oh, holy Mother!  No wonder the trickstress would not be escorted to the station—­she never went to the station.  No wonder she would not sell the royal secrets to the journalist—­there were none to sell.  Oh! it was all of a piece.