"May I enter?" said the humblest of voices outside the door.
We heard a shuffling step.
Annabel made a face and clenched her hands. The sprite was so harmless I laughed at her mischief. She brought in Doctor Chantry as she had brought me, to behold the corbeille; covering her father's folly with transparent fabrications, which anybody but the literal Briton must have seen through. He scarcely greeted me at all, folding his hands, pale and crushed, the sharp tip of his nose standing up more than ever like a porcelain candle-extinguisher, while I was anxious to have him aside, to get my money and take my leave.
"See this beautiful corbeille, Doctor Chantry! Doesn't it surprise you Lazarre should have such taste? We are going this morning to the mayor of the arrondissement. Nothing is so easy as civil marriage under the Empire! Of course the religious sacrament in the church of the Capuchins follows, and celebrating that five minutes before midnight, will make all Paris talk! Go with us to the mayor, Doctor Chantry!"
"No," he answered, "no!"
"My father joins us there. We have kept Miss Chantry waiting too long. She will be tired of sitting in the carriage."
Chattering with every breath Annabel entrained us both to the court, my poor master hobbling after her a victim, and staring at me with hatred when I tried to get a word in undertone.
I put Annabel into the coach, and Miss Chantry made frigid room for me.
"Hasten yourself, Lazarre," said Mademoiselle de Chaumont.
I looked back at the poor man who was being played with, and she cried out laughing—