‘I have it!’ cried Marotte, whilst a sudden inspiration lighted up her pale features; ‘my ring will open the glass.’
And drawing a diamond ring from her finger—the rich gift of some habitué of the Théâtre du Temple—she drew it around the pane, and then with a gentle pressure forced the glass to yield without. Had they broken it, the sound would have alarmed the gitano in the outer room.
Their chamber was on the entresol; the street was narrow, and the lackey of the carriage was nearly on a level with them. Marotte passed her white arm carefully through the opening, and threw the writing towards the lackey, accompanying the action by a low ‘Hist!’ But it was not heard; and the little note, falling short of its aim, lay in the mud of the street, yet still perceptible in the gleam of the lamps on the carriage.
He was on the point of driving away, when a slight call from Marotte attracted his attention. With some little difficulty he at last perceived the note on the ground, and got down to seize it. Its contents seemed to surprise him; for, after reading it, he passed into the house which the lady had just entered. Marotte followed his movements with feverish anxiety, and Louise caught the infection.
‘Who is that lady?’ she asked; ‘and what was the import of your note?’
‘It is Madame Scarron,’ returned Marotte; ‘the widow of my best friend. She is now in high favour at the court. Oh! she is so good—so kind. I wrote to implore her assistance to deliver us from this house; and she will do it.’
At this moment the gitano returned. Marotte, with the skill of her calling, rose to receive him. All trace of anxiety had disappeared from her face, and she was radiant with smiles. Advancing to the man, she exclaimed—
‘Bien, my gallant protector! You will not leave us to ourselves, then?’
The gipsy’s dull eye dilated, and the large pupil flashed with a strange light as he looked at the beautiful woman before him.
‘I cannot stay without and know that you are here,’ he replied. ‘I love to hear you speak and to look at you.’