A ray of hope enlivened her face, worn out by anguish. She hastened. Five minutes later she was in the rue de Rennes in front of Pierre Boerzel door.
Hearing the bell, he came to the door himself. He was in his shirtsleeves, and without a collar, because of the heat; his plump white neck showing freely above his shirt.
He gave a surprised exclamation on recognizing Thérèse, and quickly smoothed his hair down:
“You, mademoiselle!... I hope there is nothing wrong?”
Thérèse smiled with difficulty.
“No, M. Boerzell!... A service, a piece of advice I have come to seek from you.”
“Will you allow me, mademoiselle?... Let me show you in....”
As soon as they were in the front room, which was his study—a tiny little room, where books and pamphlets covered the table, the chairs, and the divan—he apologized for the exiguity of the place: “You see!... I am very much limited as to space here ... and there are even more books in my room.... I shall have to move one of these days!”
Hastily he cleared the divan and said:
“Please sit down, mademoiselle.... What is it?”