“Bon, Monsieur,” he whispered, patting my arm. “She will see you. You are to wait at the private door. I will conduct you there. It is most unusual. Monsieur is a most fortunate gentleman.”
At the door, at the foot of a narrow staircase—decidedly lacking in the white and gold of the other, the public one—I waited, for another age. The staircase was lighted by one sickly gas jet and the street outside was dark and dirty. I waited on the narrow sidewalk, listening to the roar of nocturnal Montmartre around the corner, to the beating of my own heart, and for her footstep on the stairs.
At last I heard it. The door opened and she came out. She wore a cloak over her street costume and her hat was one that she had bought in London with my money. She wore a veil and I could not see her face.
I seized her hands with both of mine.
“Frances!” I cried, chokingly. “Oh, Frances!”
She withdrew her hands. When she spoke her tone was quiet but very firm.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“Why did I come? Why—”
“Yes. Why did you come? Was it to find me? Did you know I was here?”
“I did not know. I had heard—”