In his hand was a paper, and in front of him a man.
It was the man who, coming behind him with the stealth of a cat, had placed the paper in his fingers.
The paper was a letter.
The man, as he appeared pretty clearly in the starlight, was small, chubby-cheeked, young, sedate, and dressed in a scarlet livery, exposed from top to toe through the opening of a long gray cloak, then called a capenoche, a Spanish word contracted; in French it was cape-de-nuit. His head was covered by a crimson cap, like the skull-cap of a cardinal, on which servitude was indicated by a strip of lace. On this cap was a plume of tisserin feathers. He stood motionless before Gwynplaine, like a dark outline in a dream.
Gwynplaine recognized the duchess's page.
Before Gwynplaine could utter an exclamation of surprise, he heard the thin voice of the page, at once childlike and feminine in its tone, saying to him,—
"At this hour to-morrow, be at the corner of London Bridge. I will be there to conduct you—"
"Whither?" demanded Gwynplaine.
"Where you are expected."
Gwynplaine dropped his eyes on the letter, which he was holding mechanically in his hand.