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Headless phantoms returned to the seven cold beds; and the eighth was bespoken. "Be it so," sighed Lorand: "let us write our names." Therewith he began to look for paper. But not a morsel was there in his room: all had been burned, clean paper too, that the water mark might not betray him. At last he came across Hermine's note. There was no other alternative.
Some one was sent to rap at her door there was no answer. The door was opened the young lady was not in her room, and the bed had not even been disturbed. In a few moments the whole household was in the wildest commotion; the mother weeping, and the father half wild with rage and sorrow. Of course, the next thought was of Mademoiselle Hermine's brother, and he was sent for.
Thérèse, like everything else in Nature on that summer's day, was more gloriously beautiful, in my eyes, than ever before. Hermine's ideal beauty, and with it her chance of success, faded out from my memory like an unfixed photograph, before this charming reality, and Thérèse ruled supreme.
I was about to tell you Mademoiselle Hermine's story." Concealing his delight with an assumed air of resignation, M. Fortunat reseated himself, to the intense disgust of Chupin, who was thoroughly tired of waiting outside in the cold. "I must tell you," began Madame Vantrasson, "that when this happened at least twenty-five years ago the De Chalusse family lived in the Rue Saint-Dominique.
I've never seen her; I've never heard her spoken of. How long has she been there?" "For six or seven months?" "In that case, I can't absolutely deny it. It's two years since I set foot in the count's house." "I fancied this young lady might be the count's niece Mademoiselle Hermine's daughter." Madame Vantrasson shook her head. "Put that fancy out of your head," she remarked.
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