Madame Depine had two drearier days than she had foreseen. She kept
to her own room, creeping out only at night, when, like all cats, all
wigs are grey. After an eternity of loneliness the third day dawned,
and she went by pre-arrangement to meet the morning train. Ah, how
gaily gleamed the kiosks on the boulevards through the grey mist! What
jolly red faces glowed under the cabmen's white hats! How blithely the
birds sang in the bird-shops!
The train was late. Her spirits fell as she stood impatiently at the
barrier, shivering in her thin clothes, and morbidly conscious of all
those eyes on her wig. At length the train glided in unconcernedly,
and shot out a medley of passengers. Her poor old eyes strained
towards them. They surged through the gate in animated masses, but
Madame Valiere's form did not disentangle itself from them, though
every instant she expected it to jump at her eyes. Her heart
contracted painfully--there was no "Princess." She rushed round to
another exit, then outside, to the gates at the end of the drive; she
peered into every cab even, as it rumbled past. What had happened? She
trudged home as hastily as her legs could bear her. No, Madame Valiere
had not arrived.
"They have persuaded her to stay another day," said Madame la
Proprietaire. "She will come by the evening train, or she will write."
Madame Depine passed the evening at the Gare de Lyon, and came home
heavy of heart and weary of foot. The "Princess" might still arrive
at midnight, though, and Madame Depine lay down dressed in her bed,
waiting for the familiar step in the corridor. About three o'clock she
fell into a heavy doze, and woke in broad day. She jumped to her feet,
her overwrought brain still heavy with the vapours of sleep, and threw
open her door.
"Ah! she has already taken in her boots," she thought confusedly. "I
shall be late for coffee." She gave her perfunctory knock, and turned
the door-handle. But the door would not budge.
"Jacques! Jacques!" she cried, with a clammy fear at her heart. The
_garcon_, who was pottering about with pails, opened the door with his
key. An emptiness struck cold from the neat bed, the bare walls, the
parted wardrobe-curtains that revealed nothing. She fled down the
stairs, into the bureau.
"Madame Valiere is not returned?" she cried.
Madame la Proprietaire shook her head.
"And she has not written?"
"No letter in her writing has come--for anybody."
"_O mon Dieu!_ She has been murdered. She _would_ go alone by night."
"She owes me three weeks' rent," grimly returned Madame la
Proprietaire.
"What do you insinuate?" Madame Depine's eyes flared.
Madame la Proprietaire shrugged her shoulders. "I am not at my first
communion. I have grown grey in the service of lodgers. And this is
how they reward me." She called Jacques, who had followed uneasily in
Madame Depine's wake. "Is there anything in the room?"
"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."