"Are you ill, or crazy, or else what is the matter?" cried Isidore. "Has anything befallen her?" he added, as Jean stood there before him wringing his hands. Isidore was about to rush up-stairs, but the landlord grasped his arm and stopped him, and then in hurried and broken sentences he related to him what had occurred during his absence.
Incoherent as the narrative was, it sufficed to tell Isidore only too plainly what had happened; yet he could at first scarcely realise it all. Trembling with agitation, he pressed the innkeeper with question after question till nothing more remained to be told. "What could I do," cried Jean, despairingly, "when monseigneur the marquis himself—if, indeed, it was he—told me you would be all safe if I took her at once to the Hotel Turenne?"
"The marquis himself!" cried Isidore. "Are you mad? I will not believe it. What was he like—how old?"
"Perhaps a little older than yourself. I supposed, of course, that it was the young marquis, of whom my brother has often spoken to me."
"The young marquis! There is some horrible treachery in all this; but I will find it out, cost what it will. At the Hotel Turenne, did you say?"
Jean nodded an affirmative, and before he could add another word Isidore had rushed out of the house.
Dark as it was, he managed to find his way, after many inquiries, to the Hotel Turenne. As he reached the door two mounted men with a led horse came up; the master of the house and two or three of the hotel servants with lights were standing in the hall.
"Is the Marquis de Beaujardin staying here?" asked Isidore, abruptly.
"No, he is not," answered, the hotel-keeper; "but he came to the Hotel du Roi this afternoon; you will find him there. Stand aside."
At this moment a gentleman in a riding suit, and booted and spurred, passed through the hall and descended the steps, accompanied by the landlord, who officiously held the stirrup as he mounted.