“My child, I thank you for the service.”
“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed Marianne, her eyes gleaming with suppressed tears; “save him, that is the main thing!”
“He shall be informed, mademoiselle, of what you have risked for his sake. I know what this errand must have cost you.”
Marianne smiled sadly.
“I am returning to-morrow to the convent, doubtless for ever. Life is full of sadness and pain.”
Graff waited no longer, but rushed out into the street, as the brougham of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach vanished in the distance. Baudoin was standing near the cab. Graff leapt into the carriage and said—
“To the Porte Maillot! You, Baudoin, mount with me. I want to speak to you.”
Marcel had never felt so calm as on the evening he made his way towards the Place de l’Etoile.
When he entered the carriage it immediately started off along the Avenue de la Grande-Armée, wheeled round at the Porte Maillot, and, after a two minutes’ further run, came to a halt in a dark-looking avenue, near a garden gate. Marcel stepped out, and the carriage disappeared. A small door, hidden in the ivy, was now opened, and a valet in livery appeared. Marcel followed him in the direction of a house which raised its sombre mass in front. A single light shone from a window on the first floor. Mounting a flight of steps, he entered an ante-chamber. Suddenly an exclamation was heard in the next apartment, a rapid step was heard, a door overhung with tapestry was flung open, and Sophia, her face convulsed by the violence of her emotion, appeared. Her looks expressed the terror she felt, but not a word did she utter. Taking Marcel by the wrist, she drew him into the room she had just left—a bedroom—quickly turned the key in the lock, bolted another door, and, seizing the young man in her arms, whispered in his ear—