“Has he any relations in Paris?” asked Marcel. “A sister?”
“No; he is unmarried, and has never been seen in the company of a lady.”
Marcel changed the conversation, made an excuse for leaving his companion, and went to the writing-room. Taking up a directory, he found a recent indication, handwritten as follows: “Count Cesare Agostini, 7 Rue du Colisée.” It was something to know this address, though what he wanted was information respecting that mysterious woman, Anetta or Sophia, Madame Vignola or the Baroness Grodsko. What was Agostini to him besides that infinitely charming creature, who had suddenly become metamorphosed into a most dangerous monster. Her brother, really? Her accomplice, without the slightest doubt. That was what he wished to know, and, at the risk of the greatest danger, he was determined to have his doubts removed.
He had taken a seat in a large armchair, the back of which, turned towards the door, almost entirely concealed him. Two members of the club were writing letters. The quiet of this retired spot, the ticking of the timepiece, seemed to numb his faculties. The murmur of distant voices lulled him into a reverie.
Suddenly a quiver ran over him, and he listened attentively. The voice of Agostini had just joined in the conversation.
“I have again lost two thousand louis. With the thousand yesterday, it is quite enough.”
He laughed, and one of his companions said—
“You ought to hold off for a few days, Agostini! It is useless being obstinate against ill-luck.”
“But if I did not play, what should I do? It is my only distraction.”
“That was a beautiful lady, at the opera, to whom you introduced Colonel Derbaut the other night.”