I put my finger on my lips and pointed to Ballangier, who was sitting with his head in his hands; it would have been cruel to add to his suffering. Balloquet understood me; but he could not sit still; he paced the floor excitedly, muttering:
"Ah! mon Dieu! but, in that case, we must make haste; we mustn't lose an instant! Poor young woman! Oh! it is ghastly to know that she is with him!"
We counted the seconds. Ballangier went again and again to the window. At last he cried:
"Here she is; she's coming back!"
"What a pity!" said Balloquet; "that means that her husband isn't at home."
Frédérique entered and dropped into a chair, exhausted and gasping for breath.
"Monsieur Dauberny isn't at home," she said; "but he passed the night there."
"He passed the night at home?" cried Ballangier.
"Yes; the concierge is certain of it; he saw him go in last evening, before dark, quite early in fact, and he is perfectly positive that he didn't go out again."
"His meeting with us must have made him uneasy," said I; "if he was going to where he is detaining Mignonne, he was afraid of being watched and followed; so he probably went home."