Jacques de Boiscoran went straight to Mautrec Street. But he knew with
what horror he was looked upon by the population; and in order to avoid
being recognized, and perhaps arrested, he did not take the most direct
route, nor did he choose the more frequented streets. He went a long way
around, and well-nigh lost himself in the winding, dark lanes of the
old town. He walked along in Feverish haste, turning aside from the
rare passers-by, pulling his felt hat down over his eyes, and, for still
greater safety, holding his handkerchief over his face. It was nearly
half-past nine when he at last reached the house inhabited by Count and
Countess Claudieuse. The little gate had been taken out, and the great
doors were closed.
Never mind! Jacques had his plan. He rang the bell.
A maid, who did not know him, came to the door.
“Is the Countess Claudieuse in?” he asked.
“The countess does not see anybody,” replied the girl. “She is sitting
up with the count, who is very ill to-night.”
“But I must see her.”
“Impossible.”
“Tell her that a gentleman who has been sent by M. Galpin desires to see
her for a moment. It is the Boiscoran affair.”
“Why did you not say so at once?” said the servant. “Come in.” And
forgetting, in her hurry, to close the gates again, she went before
Jacques through the garden, showed him into the vestibule, and then
opened the parlor-door, saying,--
“Will you please go in here and sit down, while I go to tell the
countess?”
After lighting one of the candles on the mantelpiece, she went out.
So far, every thing had gone well for Jacques, and even better than he
could have expected. Nothing remained now to be done, except to prevent
the countess from going back and escaping, as soon as she should have
recognized Jacques. Fortunately the parlor-door opened into the room. He
went and put himself behind the open half, and waited there.
For twenty-four hours he had prepared himself for this interview, and
arranged in his head the very words he would use. But now, at the last
moment, all his ideas flew away, like dry leaves under the breath of a
tempest. His heart was beating with such violence, that he thought it
filled the whole room with the noise. He imagined he was cool, and, in
fact, he possessed that lucidity which gives to certain acts of madmen
an appearance of sense.
He was surprised at being kept waiting so long, when, at last, light
steps, and the rustling of a dress, warned him that the countess was
coming.
She came in, dressed in a long, dark, undress robe, and took a few steps
into the room, astonished at not seeing the person who was waiting for
her.
It was exactly as Jacques had foreseen.
He pushed to, violently, the open half of the door; and, placing himself
before her, he said,--
“We are alone!”