“Auguste!” he cried.
Silence.
“Auguste, come up to me at once,” he said in French.
Another silence, then something that sounded like “Sapristi!” a groan from the gardienne, and a step was heard on the stairway. My own discomfort increased, and I would have given much to be in any other place in the world. Auguste had arrived at the head of the steps but was apparently unable to get any farther.
“Bon soir, mon père,” he said.
“Like a dutiful son,” said Monsieur de St. Gré, “you heard I was in town, and called to pay your respects, I am sure. I am delighted to find you. In fact, I came to town for that purpose.”
“Lisette—” began Auguste.
“Thought that I did not wish to be disturbed, no doubt,” said his father. “Walk in, Auguste.”
Monsieur Auguste's slim figure appeared in the doorway. He caught sight of me, halted, backed, and stood staring with widened eyes. The candles threw their light across his shoulder on the face of the elder Monsieur de St. Gré. Auguste was a replica of his father, with the features minimized to regularity and the brow narrowed. The complexion of the one was a clear saffron, while the boy's skin was mottled, and he was not twenty.
“What is the matter?” said Monsieur de St. Gré.