"Mam'zelle Marie! Mam'zelle Marie! Come in and rest a bit!"
The pretty lace-maker was passing the office of the concièrge, the so-called Mother Citron. The young girl accepted the invitation and sat down, heaving a deep sigh. It was only ten in the morning but her red eyes and her face showed signs of having passed a bad night.
"You mustn't work so hard!" exclaimed the concièrge.
"Oh, it isn't my work; that rests me, it helps me to forget.... I have so many troubles."
"Tell me all about them."
By degrees and through her tears, Marie confided all that had happened to her since the night of the murder. The avowal of love she had made to the King and the unforgettable hour she had passed in his company; then the police inquiries, suspicions, and the fact that they were continually following her.
"Ah, if only I had some one to turn to. I've thought of going to see this detective the King spoke of, M. Juve."
As Marie Pascal pronounced that name, an expression of sinister joy came into the eyes of Mother Citron:
"That's a good idea," she exclaimed.