The maid was a Breton woman, a daughter of one of the millers of Pont-Aven, and preserved still all the characteristics of that hardy Celtic race.
As the maid entered the sitting-room there was a knock at the door, and in response to her "Entrez" a waiter came into the room. He was an odd-looking person with brilliant red hair—rather a rare thing in France, but cropped close to his head in the French manner, so that it seemed to be almost squirting out of his scalp. The man, with his napkin over his arm, his short Eton jacket, and boots soled with list, was dressed just like any other waiter in the hotel, but somehow or other there was something unusual in his aspect.
He carried a tray, and went up to a small round table, gleaming with cut-glass and silver, on which supper had been laid.
"Are you quite sure there is no train from Chalons before morning?" Pauline asked the man in French.
"No train before five o'clock, mademoiselle," the man replied. "The last fast train reaches Paris at eight-forty."
The Breton woman nodded.
"Thank you," she said, gazing at him rather keenly; and then suddenly—"You're not French, are you?"
With great precision, almost as if he was practising something learnt by rote and not entirely natural to him, the waiter clicked his heels together, spread out the palms of his hands, and bowed.
"Mais oui, mademoiselle," he said.
Pauline shook her head slightly.