Beautrelet groped his way to the bed. His father was asleep.
He woke him gently:
“It’s I—Isidore—and a friend—don’t be afraid—get up—not a word.”
The father dressed himself, but, as they were leaving the room, he whispered:
“I am not alone in the castle—”
“Ah? Who else? Ganimard? Shears?”
“No—at least, I have not seen them.”
“Who then?”
“A young girl.”
“Mlle. de Saint-Véran, no doubt.”