Having closed the door of the salon, Bertrand opened the one leading to the hall; whereupon, instead of Auguste, he saw the pretty neighbor of the third floor to whom he had restored the poodle.
The pretty neighbor was a blonde, with blue eyes and a pink complexion; her voice was low and sweet, her manners and her bearing savored of affectation; but she was pretty, and her natural charms won forgiveness for those which she tried to impart to herself.
“Isn’t my little Lozor in your rooms, Monsieur Bertrand?” asked the young blonde in an undertone, with a furtive glance about the apartment.
“I have not had the honor to see him, madame,” replied Bertrand, still holding the door only partly open; which fact did not prevent the neighbor from stepping farther into the room.
“That is strange; he went out this morning; my maid is at market, and I hoped to find him here.”
“If the deserter appears, madame, I shall have the pleasure of bringing him back to you at once.”
“Poor Lozor! I am really anxious about him.”
And the neighbor, advancing step by step, found herself in the centre of the reception room, while Bertrand still held the door ajar, hoping thus to induce her to go away.
“Monsieur Dalville went out last night in full dress, didn’t he, Monsieur Bertrand?”
“Yes, madame.”