"Nice time to come," complained the lady. She shouted into the darkness of the room: "Pantan! Pantan, you sleepy lout. Wake up. There's a great oaf of a man outside wanting to speak to you."
"Patience, my dear Rosalie, patience," came the voice of Monsieur Pantan; it was strangely meek. Presently the head of Monsieur Pantan, all nightcap and moustachios, was protruded from the window.
"You have come to fight?" he asked.
"Bah! Then why wake me up this cold night?"
"It is a family matter, Monsieur," said the shivering Bonticu. "A matter the most pressing."
"Is it that Monsieur has adopted an orphanage," inquired Pantan. "Or brought nine old aunts to live with him?"
"No, no, Monsieur. It is most serious. It is Anastasie. She—is—dying."
"A thousand regrets, but I cannot act as pall-bearer," returned Monsieur Pantan, preparing to shut the window. "Good-night."
"I beg Monsieur to attend a little second," cried Monsieur Bonticu. "You can save her."