“What’s the mattaire, darleen?”
It seemed as if some one was shaking me violently. My pillow was wet with tears and the sobs still convulsed me. I opened staring eyes, eyes that fell on a dressing-table of walnut, an armoire with mirror doors, and cretonne curtains, with a design of little roses. Yet I stared more, for Anastasia, fresh and dainty, but with a face of great concern, was bending over me.
“What’s the mattaire, darleen? For ten minutes I try to wake you up. You have been having bad dream. You cry dreadful.”
“Dream! Dream! Am I mad?... Where am I now?... Tell me quick.”
“Oh, darleen, what’s the mattaire? You affrighten me....”
“No, no; what’s the address of this house?”
“Passage d’Enfer.”
“And the date...? What’s the date?”
“The twelve Novembre.”