Besides, I had not the time. Bérangère merely glanced at the paper. Having found the object of her search and obtained possession of an additional document which my uncle had provided in case the manuscript should be lost, she folded it up, slipped it into her bodice, replaced the cardboard and hung the engraving where she had found it.
Was she going away? If so, she was bound to return as she had come, that is to say, evidently, through Noël Dorgeroux's dressing-room, on the other side of the bedroom, of which she had left the communicating-door ajar. I was about to prevent her and had already taken hold of the door-handle, when suddenly she moved a few steps towards my uncle's bed and fell on her knees, stretching out her hands in despair.
Her sobs rose in the silence. She stammered words which I was able to catch:
"God-father! . . . My poor god-father!"
And she passionately kissed the coverlet of the bed beside which she must often have sat up watching my uncle when he was ill.
Her fit of crying lasted a long time and did not cease until just as I entered. Then she turned her head, saw me and stood up slowly, without taking her eyes from my face:
"You!" she murmured. "It's you!"
Seeing her make for the door, I said:
"Don't go, Bérangère."
She stopped, looking paler than ever, with drawn features.