Garnache experienced some dismay, some fear even. He plied his wits, and he determined that he had best seem to apprehend from his gestures Marius’s meaning; but apprehend it in part only, and go no further than the other side of that door.
He bowed, therefore, for the third time, and with another of his foolish grins he shuffled out of the chamber, pulling the door after him, so that Marius should not see how near at hand he stayed.
Marius, without further heeding him, stepped to mademoiselle’s door and rapped on a panel with brisk knuckles.
“Who is there?” she inquired from within.
“It is I—Marius. Open, I have something I must say to you.”
“Will it not keep till morning?”
“I shall be gone by then,” he answered impatiently, “and much depends upon my seeing you ere I go. So open. Come!”
There followed a pause, and Garnache in the outer room set his teeth and prayed she might not anger Marius. He must be handled skillfully, lest their flight should be frustrated at the last moment. He prayed, too, that there might be no need for his intervention. That would indeed be the end of all—a shipwreck within sight of harbour. He promised himself that he would not lightly intervene. For the rest this news of Marius’s intended departure filled him with a desire to know something of the journey on which he was bound:
Slowly mademoiselle’s door opened. White and timid she appeared.
“What do you want, Marius?”