Suddenly, three light, but hasty and sharp knocks were struck upon his door. Amedee arose, took his lamp, and opened it. He jumped back—there stood Louise Gerard in her deep mourning!
"You?—At my rooms?—At this hour?—What has happened?"
She entered and dropped into the poet's armchair. While he put the lamp upon the table he noticed that the young girl was as white as wax. Then she seized his hands and pressing them with all her strength, she said, in a voice unlike her own—a voice hoarse with despair:
"Amedee, I come to you by instinct, as toward our only friend, as to a brother, as to the only man who will be able to help us repair the frightful misfortune which overwhelms us!" She stopped, stifled with emotion.
"A misfortune!" exclaimed the young man. "What misfortune? Maria?"
"Yes! Maria!"
"An accident?—An illness?"
Louise made a rapid gesture with her arm and head which signified: "If it were only that!" With her mouth distorted by a bitter smile and with lowered eyes, talking confusedly, she said:
"Monsieur Maurice Roger—yes—your friend Maurice! A miserable wretch!— he has deceived and ruined the unhappy child! Oh! what infamy!—and now —now—"
Her deathly pale face flushed and became purple to the roots of her hair.