Ten o'clock struck. Henri lifted the knocker and struck once, then again.
"There," said he, listening, "there is the inner door opening, the stairs creaking, the sound of steps approaching, always the same thing."
And he knocked again.
"There," said he, "he peeps through the trellis-work, sees my pale face, and goes away, always without opening. Adieu, cruel house, until to-morrow."
And he turned to go; but scarcely had he taken two steps, when the key turned in the lock, and, to his profound surprise, the door opened, and a man stood bowing on the threshold. It was the same whom he had seen before.
"Good-evening, monsieur," said he, in a harsh voice, but whose sound appeared to Du Bouchage sweeter than the song of birds.
Henri joined his hands and trembled so that the servant put out a hand to save him from falling, with a visible expression of respectful pity.
"Come, monsieur," said he, "here I am: explain to me, I beg, what you want."
"I have loved so much," replied the young man; "my heart has beat so fast, that I hardly know if it still beats."
"Will it please you, monsieur, to sit down and talk to me?"