”I supposed it was a mistake. Good day.”
”Lulie, I have found you at last,” I murmured, as I sauntered down Fifth Avenue to the hotel. ”God grant we may save you!”
[CHAPTER XLVI.]
Madame Dubourg’s was a grand brown stone building, with broad carved balustrades, and stone vases of cactus. I had chosen the hour of twelve for our visit, as the parlors would most likely then be free from visitors, and we could see Lulie in quiet. When we alighted from our carriage there was a large-armed Irish woman washing off the stone steps, and a man in a paper cap standing on a high step-ladder, to rub the plate glass windows. They were talking and laughing together, but ceased as we got out, and looked at us and each other with some surprise on their faces. The woman gathered up her cloth and water bucket and disappeared through the area with an audible snicker, while the man fell to rubbing the wide panes with renewed diligence. There was a pretty silver knocker on the figured glass door, and as I let it fall the door was thrown open by a footman, who had put on his gold laced coat so hurriedly the collar was turned under, and from whose moustache some fragments of cheese were still hanging. He favored us with a prolonged stare of wonder, then presented a somewhat tarnished gold salver for our cards. I laid one in it, on which was simply written, ”An old friend,” and said: ”To see La Belle Louise.”
”You can’t see her,” he replied, with something of insolence in his tone.
I restrained my first impulse of anger, and slipping a five dollar gold piece in his hand, said quietly,
”Take my card up to her, and say nothing about a lady’s being with me.”
”I will, sir,” he said, with a low bow, his manner changing instantly at the touch of the gold.
He ushered us through a wide hall, with mosaic floor, into a spacious parlor, furnished in dark green velvet, and opening into another of light green satin damask, and this, in turn, leading to a large conservatory of rare plants and flowers. Though the furniture and all the appointments were so magnificent, yet every thing bore the defacement of reckless vice. The splendid Axminster carpets, though partially protected by linen tracks, were soiled and worn by muddy boots, the grand piano had its rosewood surface scratched and bruised, the music books were torn and scattered, buhl quartette tables around the room were covered with sloppings of wine, broken glasses, wet packs of cards and dice, the embroidered flowers on the ottomans were frayed into strings, and the gorgeous paintings on the walls were splotched and blistered, and their gilded frames tarnished. We had walked through both parlors to the conservatory and returned to the first, when we heard a light foot-fall on the stairway, and Lulie came down into the hall and stood for a moment looking through the side lights out into the street, with the same look of wan despair upon her face. The next instant she walked lightly into the room, twirling the tassel of her morning robe over her forefinger. She advanced half across the room before she saw us, and then her eyes opened as if in terror, a leaden pallor spread over her face, as if life had fled, and pressing her hand to her heart, with the tremulous wail, ”O God!” she sank down upon the floor, her pallid cheek resting on the cushion of a fauteuil that had been overthrown, and her colorless lips uttering low moans, that were piteous, indeed, to hear.