"Yes, monsieur."
If her heart had not already fallen suddenly to zero, it would have dropped there when she opened the vestibule door.
The elderly image of Jean Marot stood before her. Somewhat stouter of figure and broader of feature, with full grayish beard and moustache that concealed the outlines of the lower face, but still such a striking likeness of father to son that even one less versed in the human physiognomy than Mlle. Fouchette must have at once recognized Marot père. The deeply recessed eyes looked darker and seemed to burn more fiercely than Jean's, and more accurately suggested Lerouge. Indeed, to the casual observer the man might have been the father of either of the two young men. In bearing and attire the figure was that of the prosperous French manufacturer. His voice was coldly harsh and imperious.
He paused in the vestibule and gazed searchingly at the trembling little woman with a fierce glare that made her feel as if she were being shrivelled up where she stood.
"So! May I inquire whether I am on the threshold of Monsieur Jean Marot's appartement or that of his—his——"
He was evidently making an effort to preserve his calmness, but the words seemed to choke him.
The implication, though not at once fully understood by Mlle. Fouchette, had the effect of rousing her powers of resistance.
"It is Monsieur Marot's, monsieur," she replied, with dignity.
"And you are——"