“Mais oui, monsieur. Le Paradis.”
The pavement was broad, of mud and asphalt. The prison towered on our right, filling the sky with darkness—but for those distant, terrible windows. The rain whipped down, stinging like little animals. Nearby one forlorn lamp lit the putrefying colours of the advertisements circling a lavabo. What, I wondered and wondered, could Iris be doing here? Facing me across the broad pavement of mud and asphalt was a great gate which had once been brown, lit by a lamp on which had once been inscribed the number of the Nursing Home. Iris was here. Were we, then, always to meet in darkness, Iris and I? She was here, and perhaps, I thought, on the other side of her is a Morgue or an Asylum.
A yard or so from the great door there was let into the high wall a small door inscribed Concierge. I was startled at the clatter made by the bell. A nun stood in the dim doorway.
Chapter Six: THE RED LIGHTS
I
THE shape of her coif against the dim light was like some legendary thing’s head, and she was eating. I heard her. That she was old and very stout was all I could see. I could smell just a little, too. Poor Iris.
I asked if I might have news of Mrs. Storm.
“Ah, la dame anglaise!” She ate, but not finally. “Madame est assez bien, je crois. Mais pardon, monsieur. Je n’ai pas d’instructions à vous donner——”
“But!” I pleaded. “But——”
“Je regrette, monsieur. C’est pas ma faute, vous savez. Pardon.”