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At the dead man's feet stood two children, each holding an inverted torch. One of them Évariste recognized as his concierge's little daughter Joséphine, who in her childish gravity and beauty reminded him of those charming genii of Love and Death the Romans used to sculpture on their tombs.
Why, then picking up her skirt she threads her way through the crowded streets, reads the advertisements on the walls, hails the omnibus, inquires at the concierge's loge, murmurs as she goes upstairs, "Que c'est haut le cinquième," and then? Why, the door opens, and she cries, "Je t'aime"
He had begun by not telling Caffie, instantly, what he thought of his propositions; but it is more difficult to act than to control one's self, to speak than to be silent. What would he say, what would he do, when the time for action came? He reached his house without having decided anything, and as he passed before the concierge's lodge absorbed in thought, he heard some one call him.
In the streets, the galloping of the horses and the noise of the vehicles made her fancy that all the inmates of Saint-Anne were at her heels. And that the doctor had threatened her! Really, she already thought she had the complaint. In the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or the Boches and the others were naturally awaiting her. The moment she appeared they called her into the concierge's room.
The sidewalks gleamed, the Boulevard was deserted, the night was sinister. On arriving, they found that the painter's door was open, and that the concierge's lodge was lighted but empty. At the top of the stairs the physician, Dr. de Rivil, a little gray man, short, round, very well dressed, extremely polite, came to meet them. He bowed low to the Countess and held out his hand to the Count.
I had, acting upon the concierge's hint, arrayed myself in my evening clothes and I handed my silk hat, purchased in London where, as Hephzy said, "a man without a tall hat is like a rooster without tail feathers" to a polite and busy attendant. Then a personage with a very straight beard and a very curly mustache, ushered me into the main dining-room.
It was an old house where Caffie lived, and had been formerly a private hotel; it was composed of two wings, one on the street, the other on an inside court. A porte cochere gave access to this court, and under its roof, near the staircase, was the concierge's lodge. Saniel knocked at the door in vain; it was locked and would not open.
This done, she put her credit notes and her cheque-book into her handbag, and, leaving the note with the concierge's wife, who bristled with interesting suspicions, she vanished into Paris. The weather was even more superb than on the previous day.
In a few moments he had recovered his self-possession however; and, without stopping to hear the concierge's words of condolence, he slowly ascended to the fifth landing and entered the dreary room.
"You must not thank me at all," I replied. "In helping you I am only doing my duty to my client." I had scarcely said the words before I regretted them. It was a foolish speech and a churlish one as well. She pretended not to notice it, however, but bade her maid go down to the concierge's office, and take the bag to the room that had been allotted to her.
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