“No, monsieur, but two friends for whom he engaged apartments have just arrived.”
“Who are they?” asked Keredec quickly.
“It is a lady and a monsieur from Paris. But not married: they have taken separate apartments and she has a domestic with her, a negress, Algerian.”
“What are their names?”
“It is not ten minutes that they are installed. They have not given me their names.”
“What is the lady’s appearance?”
“Monsieur the Professor,” replied the hostess demurely, “she is not beautiful.”
“But what is she?” demanded Keredec impatiently; and it could be seen that he was striving to control a rising agitation. “Is she blonde? Is she brunette? Is she young? Is she old? Is she French, English, Spanish—”
“I think,” said Madame Brossard, “I think one would call her Spanish, but she is very fat, not young, and with a great deal too much rouge—”
She stopped with an audible intake of breath, staring at my friend’s white face. “Eh! it is bad news?” she cried. “And when one has been so ill—”