I made a great many copies of this document, always changing something as I went. I felt the importance of every word, and fastidiously pondered over each expression I employed. The bright sun of morning broke in at last upon my labors and found me still at my desk, still composing. All done, I lay down and slept soundly.
“Is she gone, waiter?” said I, as he entered my room with hot water. “Is she gone?”
“Who, sir?” asked he, in some astonishment.
“The lady in black, who came over in the last mail-packet from Dover; the young lady in deep mourning, who arrived all alone.”
“No, sir. She has sent all round the hotels this morning to inquire after some one who was to have met her here, but, apparently, without success.”
“Give her this; place it in her own hand, and, as you are leaving the room, say, in a gentle voice: 'Is there an answer, mademoiselle?' You understand?”
“Well, I believe I do,” said he, significantly, as he slyly pocketed the half-Napoleon fee I had tendered for his acceptance.
Now the fellow had thrown into his countenance—a painfully astute and cunning face it was—one of those expressive looks which actually made me shudder. It seemed to say, “This is a conspiracy, and we are both in it.”
“You are not for a moment to suppose,” said I, hurriedly, “that there is one syllable in that letter which could compromise me, or wound the delicacy of the most susceptible.”
“I am convinced that monsieur has written it with most consummate skill,” said he, with a supercilious grin, and left the room.