The Destroyer: A Tale of International Intrigue

Monsieur Aristide Brisson, the fat little proprietor of the Hotel du Nord—a modest house facing the Place Puget at Toulon—turned uneasily in his sleep, as though fretted by a disturbing dream; then he awoke with a start and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the dark windows showed that the dawn was yet far distant, and he was about to turn over and go thankfully to sleep again when a sudden remembrance leaped into his brain. In an instant, he had bounded from the bed, struck a match, and, after a look at his watch, lighted a candle. Then he returned to the bed, and, without compunction, grasped the plump arm of Madame Brisson, who was sleeping peacefully, and shook her roughly.
Wake, Gabrielle, wake! he cried—in French, of course.
Madame Brisson, who was also little and fat with a white skin that was her pride, opened her eyes, stared an instant, and then sat up in bed.
Heavens, Brisson! she cried, her hand to her throat. What is it? What has happened? Have you illness?
No, no! said her husband, who was struggling with his trousers. But rise, quickly!
Madame Brisson glanced at the dark windows.
I do not understand, she said.
Ah, Gabrielle, said her husband reproachfully, I should never have believed you could have forgotten! It is to-day, at sunrise, that our guests depart!
Heavens! cried Madame Brisson again, and she, too, bounded from the bed and began to don her clothes with trembling fingers. That I should have forgotten! Forgive me, Aristide! What hour is it?
It is almost four and a half. At five, the coffee must be ready.
It shall be! Madame promised, and hurried from the room, to complete her toilet in the kitchen.