Louis was forced to return to the office for information; but he found the place already deserted, and returned to the cab in despair.
"I have just learned it was on the left bank," the coachman informed him from his seat.
"To the left bank then!" he ordered, sinking back on the cushions with a moan.
There he learned that the sad news was unfortunately but too true, and was directed how to reach the scene of the accident.
It was nightfall when he finally reached Bas-Meudon; and, guided by the flames of the burning debris, he soon found himself on the sinister spot, where he spent the night in a fruitless search for the charred remains of his father among the mass of crushed and burnt flesh piled on the roadside or pinioned in the wreck. Worn out in body and spirits, he returned to Paris at dawn, hoping his father might have been one of the small number that had escaped with slight injuries.
"Has my father returned?" were his first words to the concierge.
"No, monsieur Louis," replied the man.
"There is no doubt possible then—he perished in the accident," he moaned, sinking into a chair and bursting into sobs.
In a few moments he had recovered his self-possession however; and, without stopping to hear the concierge's words of condolence, he slowly ascended to the fifth landing and entered the dreary room. At sight of this gloomy home, so long shared with his beloved father, the young man's grief again became uncontrollable; and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face in his hands and gave free scope to his overwhelming sorrow.
He had sobbed thus for half an hour, absorbed wholly in his bitter despair, when he was startled by a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of some one into the room.