“Have you already met Lydie somewhere?” asked the great master of the police.
“I don’t know—I think not,” answered la Peyrade, in a stammering voice; “in any case, it was long ago—But that air—that voice—I think—”
“Let us go in,” said Corentin.
Opening the door abruptly, he entered, pulling the young man after him.
Sitting with her back to the door, and prevented by the sound of the piano from hearing what happened behind her, Lydie did not notice their entrance.
“Now have you any remembrance of her?” said Corentin.
La Peyrade advanced a step, and no sooner had he caught a glimpse of the girl’s profile than he threw up his hands above his head, striking them together.
“It is she!” he cried.
Hearing his cry, Lydie turned round, and fixing her attention on Corentin, she said:—
“How naughty and troublesome you are to come and disturb me; you know very well I don’t like to be listened to. Ah! but—” she added, catching sight of la Peyrade’s black coat, “you have brought the doctor; that is very kind of you; I was just going to ask you to send for him. The baby has done nothing but cry since morning; I was singing to put her to sleep, but nothing can do that.”