It was something beside the effort of mounting five flights of stairs that caused his heart to beat violently when, after inquiring at every landing-place on his way up, he finally knocked at a small door on the very top story.
A short, middle-aged woman, with pale blue eyes and scanty gray hair, opened the door.
"Is this Madame René?" asked Donald, devoutly hoping that she would say "No."
The woman nodded, at the same time regarding him with suspicion, and not opening the door wide enough for him to enter.
"You replied to an advertisement, I believe?" began Donald again, bowing politely; but noting the woman's blank reception of his English, he repeated the inquiry in French. The door opened wide; the woman smiled a smile that might have been agreeable but for the lonely effect of her solitary front tooth, and then courteously invited her visitor to enter and be seated.
Poor Donald, wishing that he were many miles away, and convinced that nothing could come of an interview with this short, stout, pale-eyed "Ellen Lee," took a chair and waited resignedly for Madame to speak.
"I have advertised," she said in French, "and am ready to begin work."
Donald looked at her inquiringly.
"Perhaps Madame, the young gentleman's mother," she suggested, "wishes a fine pastry-cook at once?"
"A pastry-cook!" exclaimed Donald, in despair. "I came to see Ellen Lee, or rather to inquire for Madame René. Is your name René?"