He was ready, in fact, when the old servant returned; and, as he had in his pocket some of those arguments that lend wings to the poorest cab-horses, in less than ten minutes he had reached the Hotel des Folies.
“How is Mlle. Lucienne?” he inquired first of all of the worthy hostess.
The intervention of the commissary of police had made M. Fortin and his wife more supple than gloves, and more gentle than doves.
“The poor dear child is much better,” answered Mme. Fortin; “and the doctor, who has just left, now feels sure of her recovery. But there is a row up there.”
“A row?”
“Yes. That lady whom my husband went after last night insists upon going out; and M. Maxence won’t let her: so that they are quarreling up there. Just listen.”
The loud noise of a violent altercation could be heard distinctly. M. de Tregars started up stairs, and on the second-story landing he found Maxence holding on obstinately to the railing, whilst Mme. Zelie Cadelle, redder than a peony, was trying to induce him to let her pass, treating him at the same time to some of the choicest epithets of her well-stocked repertory. Catching sight of Marius,
“Is it you,” she cried, “who gave orders to keep me here against my wishes? By what right? Am I your prisoner?”
To irritate her would have been imprudent.
“Why did you wish to leave,” said M. de Tregars gently, “at the very moment when you knew that I was to call for you?”