"It is I."
"Who are you?"
"The waiter."
I rose, with my loosened hair falling from my shoulders, and opened the door.
"What do you want?"
The waiter smiled. He was a tall fellow with red hair, whom I had met several times on the stairs, and who always looked at me strangely.
"What do you want?" I repeated.
The waiter smiled again, apparently embarrassed, and, rolling in his fat fingers the bottom of his blue apron, covered with grease spots, he stammered:
"Mam'zelle ... I...."
He surveyed my person with a sort of dismal desire.