"Do not call me by my name."
"What has happened?"
"Return to your rooms and you will see, then slip into the corridor, look carefully around to make sure that no one is spying on you, and come to my apartments. The door will be ajar."
He, too, disappeared down the stairs, like the phantoms in a theatre who glide through a trap door.
"Ventre saint gris!" murmured the Béarnais, "the puzzle continues; but since the answer is in my rooms, let us go thither and find it."
However, it was not without emotion that Henry went on his way. He had the sensitiveness and the superstition of youth. Everything was clearly reflected on his mind, the surface of which was as smooth as a mirror, and what he had just heard foretold trouble.
He reached the door of his rooms and listened. Not a sound. Besides, since Charlotte had said to return to his apartments, it was evident that there was nothing for him to fear by doing so. He glanced hurriedly around the first room—it was vacant. Nothing showed that anything had occurred.
"Orthon is not here," said he.
He passed on to the next room. There everything was explained.
In spite of the water which had been thrown on in bucketsful, great red spots covered the floor. A piece of furniture was broken, the bed curtains had been slashed by the sword, a Venetian mirror had been shattered by a bullet; and a bloody hand which had left its terrible imprint on the wall showed that this silent chamber had been the scene of a frightful struggle. Henry embraced all these details at a glance, and passing his hand across his forehead, now damp with perspiration, murmured: