This morning the post brought two letters for my strange guests. Being anxious to see how they would be received, I carried them up to Madame Letellier's room myself.
The ladies were sitting together, the daughter embroidering. At the sight of the letters in my hand they both rose, the daughter reaching me first.
"Let me have them!" she cried, a glad, bright color showing for a moment on her cheek.
"From your father?" asked the mother, in a tone of nonchalance that did not deceive me.
The girl shook her head. A smile as exquisite as it was sad made her mouth beautiful. "From—" she began, but stopped, whether from an instinct of maidenly shame or some secret signal from her mother, I cannot say.
"Well, never mind," the mother exclaimed, and turned away toward the window in a manner that gave me my dismissal.
So I went out, having learned nothing, save the fact that mademoiselle had a lover, and that her lips could smile.
They did not smile again, however. Next day she looked whiter than ever, and languid as a broken blossom.
"She is ill," declared madame. "The stairs she has to climb are too much for her."
"Ah, ha!" thought I to myself. "That is the first move," and waited for the next development.