"Your name?"
"You do not know me."
"Tell me your name."
A stifled oath was the reply.
"Open the door, I say. My name is Robeccal."
The young girl drew a breath of relief, for she was becoming sorely frightened by the pursuit of the Vicomte, and an unusual knock made her feel that it was he. But the voice and the name of Robeccal tranquillized her fears. She opened the door—our old friend of the circus stood before her. He began to grumble and scold.
"I beg your pardon," said the girl, gently, "but I am in haste, and if—"
"Suppose you offer me a chair, young lady! What manners!"
Francine repeated that she was in haste, and would be glad to know the occasion of his visit. Her manner was so decided that Robeccal saw that he must speak.