With a trembling hand she knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said a voice from within.
She entered the room.
It was not the Marquis of Clameran who stood in the middle of the room, but a young man, almost a youth, who bowed to Mme. Fauvel with a singular expression on his handsome face.
Mme. Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” she said, blushing deeply. “I thought that this was the Marquis of Clameran’s room.”
“It is his room, madame,” replied the young man; then, seeing she was silent and about to leave, he added:
“I presume I have the honor of addressing Mme. Fauvel?”
She bowed affirmatively, shuddering at the sound of her own name, frightened at this proof of Clameran’s betrayal of her secret to a stranger.
With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.