The old man had no time to reply. She was gone, with her messenger, in the cab. They stopped at last.
“Here is the house.”
Nathalie got out, pale and trembling.
“Shall I go up-stairs with you, madame?” asked the boy.
“No, I will go alone. The third story, isn’t it?”
“Yes, madame; the left-hand door, at the head of the stairs.”
It seemed that now, indeed, the end of all things was at hand.
Nathalie mounted the dark, narrow stairs, and arrived at the door, and, almost fainting, she cried: “Open the door, or I shall die!”
The door was opened, and Nathalie fell into her husband’s arms. He was alone in the room, clad in a gray blouse, and—smoking a Turkish pipe.
“My wife!” exclaimed Armand, in surprise.