Chapter VIII: Another Search

As the prospective tenant began her ascent, close upon the heels of the concierge, another rather peculiar scene was occurring in the adjoining house, the lower floor of which was used as a cafe.

This establishment, which was not very extensively patronised at any time, could now boast of but a single guest. He was seated at a table, on which stood a carafe of water, a bowl of sugar, and a glass of absinthe.

This patron, who had entered the cafe only a few minutes before, was a slender, nervous, sunburnt man about thirty years of age. He had strongly marked features, and was exceedingly quick in his movements. He picked up several newspapers in swift succession, and pretended to glance over them as he smoked his cigar, but his mind was evidently not upon what he was reading, that is, if he was reading at all, and at last, flinging the journal violently down upon the table, he called the waiter in a curt, peremptory tone.

The waiter, a gray-haired man, hastened to respond to the summons.

"Bring me a glass of absinthe, waiter," said the man with the cigar.

"But your glass is still full, monsieur."

"True."

The man drained the glass, and the waiter refilled it.

"Would you like to make a hundred sous?" asked the man with the cigar.

And seeing the waiter gaze at him in astonishment, he repeated, in an even more brusque fashion:

"I ask you if you want to make a hundred sous?"

"But, monsieur--"

"Do you or do you not? Answer me."

"I should like to very much, but what am I to do, monsieur?"

"Answer the questions I am going to put to you. Have you been here long?"

"Ever since the cafe opened, about ten years ago."

"Do you live here in the house?"

"Yes, monsieur. I have a room in the fifth story."

"Do you know all the inmates of the house?"

"Either by name, or by sight, yes, monsieur, but that is all. I am the only waiter here, and I have no time to visit."

After a moment of painful hesitation, during which the stranger's features betrayed the most poignant anxiety, he said to the waiter, in a slightly husky voice:

"Who lives on the fourth floor?"

"A lady, monsieur."

"Nobody else?"

"No, monsieur."

"Is she a widow?"

"I don't know, monsieur. She calls herself Madame Luceval, that is all I can tell you."

"But you must understand that if I am to give you a hundred sous, I expect you to tell me something."

"One can tell only what one knows, monsieur."

"Of course, that is understood. But now answer me frankly. What do the people in the house think of this lady--this Madame--What did you call her?"

"Madame Luceval, monsieur. A person would have to be very spiteful to gossip about her, for nobody ever sees her."

"What?"

"She always goes out at four o'clock in the morning, summer and winter, and though I never get to bed before midnight, I always hear her come in after I do."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the man with the cigar, manifesting quite as much astonishment as the lady in mourning had done on hearing of M. Renaud's early hours. "The lady goes out at four o'clock every morning, you say?"

"Yes, monsieur. I hear her close her door."

"It passes my comprehension," muttered the man with the cigar. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added:

"What does this lady do to take her out so early?"

"I have no idea, monsieur."

"But what do the people in the house think of it?"

"Nothing, monsieur."

"Nothing! Do you mean that they see nothing remarkable about a lady going out at four o'clock in the morning?"

"When Madame Luceval first came here, about four years ago, her manner of living did seem rather peculiar, but people soon ceased to trouble themselves about it; for, as I told you just now, nobody ever sees her, so people forget all about her, though she is wonderfully pretty."

"If she is so pretty, she must have a lover, of course," said the stranger, with a sarcastic smile, but as if the words, somehow, burned his tongue.

"I have heard persons say that this lady never has a visitor, monsieur."

"But when she returns home so late at night, she does not return alone, I fancy."

"I cannot say whether any one accompanies her to the house or not, but I do know that no man ever crosses her threshold."

"She is really a paragon of virtue, then?"

"She certainly seems to be, and I am sure that everybody in the house will tell you the same thing that I do."

"Do you know what her resources are? What she lives on, in short?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, though it is not at all likely that she lives on her income, monsieur. Rich people don't get up at that hour, especially on a morning like this, when the cold cuts you like a knife, and the clock in the Luxembourg was striking half-past three when I heard the lady leave her room this morning."

"It is strange, passing strange! It seems to me I must be dreaming," muttered the gentleman. Then--

"Is that all you know?" he asked aloud.

"That is all, monsieur. But I can vouch for it that nobody in the house knows any more."

The man with the cigar remained silent and thoughtful for a few minutes, during which he sipped his second glass of absinthe abstractedly, then, throwing a foreign gold coin on the table, he said:

"Take out the amount of my bill, and keep one hundred sous for yourself. Your money was very easily earned, it strikes me."

"I did not ask you for the money, monsieur, and if you--"

"I mean what I say. Pay yourself, and don't talk any more about it."

After he had received the change due him the stranger left the cafe. Almost at the same instant, the lady dressed in mourning came out of the adjoining house, and started down the street in the opposite direction from that which the gentleman had taken.

As they passed each other, their eyes met. The man paused for an instant, as if the sight of this woman aroused some vague recollection, then, thinking his memory must have deceived him, he walked on up the street.