It seemed to him that from the concierge’s room loud vituperations followed him, but he took no notice of these; only a short flight of stairs and one more door separated him from Jeanne.
He did not pause to think that she would in all probability be still in bed, that he might have some difficulty in rousing Madame Belhomme, that the latter might not even care to admit him; nor did he reflect on the glaring imprudence of his actions. He wanted to see Jeanne, and she was the other side of that wall.
“He, citizen! Hola! Here! Curse you! Where are you?” came in a gruff voice to him from below.
He had mounted the stairs, and was now on the landing just outside Jeanne’s door. He pulled the bell-handle, and heard the pleasing echo of the bell that would presently wake Madame Belhomme and bring her to the door.
“Citizen! Hola! Curse you for an aristo! What are you doing there?”
The concierge, a stout, elderly man, wrapped in a blanket, his feet thrust in slippers, and carrying a guttering tallow candle, had appeared upon the landing.
He held the candle up so that its feeble flickering rays fell on Armand’s pale face, and on the damp cloak which fell away from his shoulders.
“What are you doing there?” reiterated the concierge with another oath from his prolific vocabulary.
“As you see, citizen,” replied Armand politely, “I am ringing Mademoiselle Lange’s front door bell.”
“At this hour of the morning?” queried the man with a sneer.