A cheerless-looking place was Mlle. Lucienne’s room, without any furniture but a narrow iron bedstead, a dilapidated bureau, four straw-bottomed chairs, and a small table. Over the bed, and at the windows, were white muslin curtains, with an edging that had once been blue, but had become yellow from repeated washings.
Often Maxence had begged his friend to take a more comfortable lodging, and always she had refused.
“We must economize,” she would say. “This room does well enough for me; and, besides, I am accustomed to it.”
When M. de Tregars and the commissary walked in, the estimable hostess of the Hotel des Folies was kneeling in front of the fire, preparing some medicine.
Hearing the footsteps, she got up, and, with a finger upon her lips,
“Hush!” she said. “Take care not to wake her up!” The precaution was useless.
“I am not asleep,” said Mlle. Lucienne in a feeble voice. “Who is there?”
“I,” replied Maxence, advancing towards the bed.
It was only necessary to see the poor girl in order to understand Maxence’s frightful anxiety. She was whiter than the sheet; and fever, that horrible fever which follows severe wounds, gave to her eyes a sinister lustre.
“But you are not alone,” she said again.