"To speak with you, Leroux," she said. "I have a message for you from Madame la Marquise de Mortain. Let me in."
"Madame la Marquise chooses her messenger strangely," he retorted sullenly, "at this hour of the night."
"No one else was willing to affront the coming storm. Our servants are cowards. Let me in, Leroux."
Leroux made no immediate reply. He looked over his shoulder into the interior of the room, apparently with a view to taking counsel with his mates. Fernande, with her hood and cloak drawn closely round her, waited on the doorstep.
That moment a vivid flash of lightning rent the heavy bank of clouds in the east, and a clap of thunder rolled echoing above the hills. She suppressed an involuntary cry of terror, but she called out more insistently:
"Let me in, Leroux. 'Tis a matter of life and death."
But Leroux did not stand aside; instead of this, he stepped over the threshold, and as Fernande instinctively retreated, he came down the steps, and then he closed the door behind him.
"Let me in, Leroux," she said more peremptorily. "I cannot speak with you out here."
"Why not?" he retorted. "I have no secrets that the night birds may not hear."